sweet talker
by clintspietro
Summary: He doesn't recognise the number, but still unlocks the screen with a single swipe. He flicks through the messages, starting from the top and making his way slowly down. The first six or so messages are just pictures, and Clint is admittedly surprised. Of all things, he wasn't expecting pictures of, well, that ugly thing. (previously titled: 'I've got somebody at home').
1. Chapter 1

So, I feel like I need to put this here before you keep reading: this fic will be around 90% texting (+ snapchat, phonecalls, and possible skype / facetime) while the other 10% will focus on real life interactions, as you'll see in this chapter. Oh and all of the chapters are written in Clint's POV. Also it looks way better on ao3 than it does on here - apparently it doesn't like too many spaces, or question marks, which is why this looks so squashed together. I'm under the exact same pen name on ao3 if you'd rather read it on there.

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

and this .. **..** means that someone is still typing. Clint owns an iPhone.

* * *

TUES 5 MAY

 _[7:21PM]:_

 _look how big it is_

Clint stares down at the text in confusion. He was really only gone for a minute, if that. He went upstairs, changed out of his sweaty work clothes and into clean ones (the jeans have holes in the knees, and the red plaid shirt is _well_ past its expiration date, according to Nat) but he was really only out of the room for a minute. Maybe three or four, tops.

When he returned to the kitchen, he was greeted by a chorus of chimes.

 **(14) New Messages**

He doesn't recognize the number, but still unlocks the screen with a single swipe. He flicks through the messages, starting from the top and making his way down slowly. The first six or so messages are just pictures, and Clint is admittedly surprised. Of all things, he wasn't expecting pictures of, well, _that_ ugly thing.

It's a fluffy white kitten.

Well, there's more than one. Each photo is of a new kitten, and Clint really isn't keeping count of how many. He keeps skimming through the pictures.

Sad, beady eyes stare back at Clint as he flicks from image to image, and the small crease on his brow grows into a fully formed frown. Clint pauses to rub at his temple, and wonders if somehow Nat-or Stark, he wouldn't put it past either of them-had something to do with this.

Clint scrolls down to the recent text messages, and his confusion only continues to grow. He almost laughs. Almost.

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _i like the one with the spots_

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _the tiny one_

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _in the fourth picture_

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _wanda? ? ? ?_

 _[7:27PM]:_

 _i thought you would like them_

 _[7:27PM]:_

 _which one do you like_

 _[7:28PM]:_

 _wanda ? are you still upset with me_

For another long moment, Clint just stares down at the screen blankly. He's startled by the noise of another incoming text – the sharp chime is shrill and he's never really liked the sound all that much, so it's no surprise when he jolts slightly at the sound. He _really_ wants to change that message tone, now more than ever.

 _[7:31PM]:_

 _what about the one with the green eyes? wanda? ? ?_

[7:31PM]:

Wrong number, pal.

 _[7:31PM]:_

 _you are not wanda?_

[7:32PM]:

No, I am not.

 _[7:32PM]:_

 _oh_

 _[7:32PM]:_

 _no matter. which one do you like?_

[7:33PM]:

.. **..**

[7:34PM]:

I don't like any of them.

[7:34PM]:

And I don't have time for this.

 _[7:34PM]:_

 _i like the one with the spots_

[7:35PM]:

Right.

 _[7:35PM]:_

 _why do you dislike them_

[7:35PM]:

Why are you still messaging me?

 _[7:35PM]:_

 _you did not answer my question_

[7:36PM]:

And I'm not going to.

Clint switches his phone to silent and sets it back down on the counter. He really doesn't have the time, or the patience, to deal with any of this. Instead of checking his phone for a reply, Clint grabs two beers from the fridge and collapses on the couch. He flicks on the most recent Bourne movie, and pretends that there aren't boxes and boxes stacked full of Laura's stuff in the front bedroom, waiting to be picked up.

* * *

THURS 7 MAY

 **[9:02AM]:**

 **I take it we're still on for this weekend.**

[9:16AM]:

Jesus.

 **[9:16AM]:**

 **nope, just Nat.**

 **[9:16AM]:**

 **;)**

[9:17AM]:

Why are you up this early?

[9:18AM]:

And why are you so chirpy. It's sickening.

[9:18AM]:

Also, you woke me.

 **[9:20AM]:**

 **you love it, Barton.**

[9:23AM]:

Normally, I do. Right now? Not so much.

 **[9:24AM]:**

 **so, are we on or not?**

[9:24AM]:

Not.

 **[9:25AM]:**

 **scared I'm going to kick your ass again?**

 **[9:25AM]:**

 **which I will, by the way.**

[9:28AM]:

Laura's stopping by to get the rest of her stuff.

 **[9:30AM]:**

 **oh**

[9:31AM]:

.. **..**

 **[9:31AM]:**

 **I had no idea it was that bad.**

[9:32AM]:

I'm handling it.

 **[9:33AM]:**

 **talk later?**

[9:33AM]:

Uh huh.

 **[9:34AM]:**

.. **..**

 **[9:34AM]:**

 **I never really liked her anyway.**

[9:35AM]:

Liar.

[9:36AM]:

You liked her. We all liked her.

* * *

SAT 9 MAY

It's pissing down rain by the time Clint makes it back to the farmhouse.

He _just_ manages to escape the hail: thick chunks of ice hit the ground as Clint ushers Lucky inside, shutting the screen door behind them. Clint fetches a towel and pats the golden lab down, scratching under his belly, and behind his ear, affectionately. Once he's dry, Lucky curls up on his small bed by the door, and Clint's halfway up the stairs when an alert loudly goes off on his phone.

Sighing, he pads back to the kitchen and picks the phone up off the table.

 _[3:15PM]:_

 _did you decide?_

[3:16PM]:

Why did you keep my number?

 _[3:16PM]:_

 _what do you think of the one with green eyes?_

[3:16PM]:

I don't care.

[3:17PM}:

Did I mention how much I don't care?

[3:17PM]:

Because I don't.

 _[3:17PM]:_

 _so you are not a cat person._

[3:18PM]:

.. **..**

[3:22PM]:

No.

 _[3:22PM]:_

 _it took you that many minutes to type "no"? ? ?_

[3:23PM]:

Dial it down a notch, pal. One question mark is enough.

 _[3:23PM]:_

 _we are pals?_

[3:23PM]:

I take it back.

[3:24PM]:

We aren't pals.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _what did you think of the fluffy white one, pal?_

[3:25PM}:

Again, with the pal thing. And the question marks.

[3:25PM]:

Why did you save my number?

[3:25PM]:

?

 _[3:26PM]:_

 _it is fun_

[3:27PM]:

Well, the fun stops now. Stop asking me questions about kittens.

Clint winces at his reply, feeling every bit like an old man - _the fun stops now._ He shakes his head, and again almost finds himself laughing at how ridiculous all of this is. He's seconds away from heading upstairs again when his phone chimes and Clint rolls his eyes in anticipation of the response.

 _[3:34PM]:_

 _you are very grumpy. perhaps you should nap, old man_


	2. Chapter 2

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

SUN 10 MAY

 _[10:02AM]:_

 _do you enjoy doritos_

 _[10:02AM]:_

 _spicy or mild salsa_

 _[10:02AM]:_

 _?_

 _[10:03AM]:_

 _old man_

[10:06AM]:

If only you could see my face right now.

[10:07AM]:

You could see how much I don't want to be having this conversation.

 _[10:07AM]:_

 _mild or spicy?_

[10:08AM]:

Go away.

 _[10:08AM]:_

 _spicy it is_

 _[10:08AM]:_

 _spicy just like you today_

 _[10:09AM]:_

 _why are you grumpy so early?_

[10:10AM]:

Hm, I don't know.

[10:10AM]:

Maybe it's because you keep texting me.

[10:10AM]:

Maybe it's because the first thing I wake up to is "mild or spicy?"

[10:11AM]:

Maybe I'd like to go back to sleep.

 _[10:11AM]:_

 _i am not so bad_

[10:12AM]:

Says the stranger who won't leave me alone.

 _[10:12AM]:_

 _you are the one that replies_

 _[10:13AM]:_

 _no one forces you to answer_

 _[10:14AM]:_

 _hello?_

 _[10:14AM]:_

 _old man?_

 _[10:15AM]:_

 _:-(_

* * *

SUN 10 MAY

[6:27PM]:

How do I know you're not some sort of psychopath?

[6:28PM]:

You could be trying to lure me in so you can kill me.

 _[6:30PM]:_

 _old man!_

[6:30PM]:

Stop calling me that.

 _[6:30PM]:_

 _then tell me what to call you_

 _[6:31PM]:_

 _:-)_

[6:31PM]:

You don't call me anything. We're not friends.

 _[6:31PM]:_

 _but you called me pal?_

[6:32PM]:

It's just an expression.

 _[6:32PM]:_

 _like old man?_

[6:33PM]:

No, not like old man.

[6:33PM]:

Also, you didn't answer my Q.

 _[6:33PM]:_

 _how do i know you are not psychopath?_

 _[6:33PM]:_

 _you could be trying to kill me_

[6:34PM]:

That's cute.

[6:34PM]:

Don't use what I said against me.

 _[6:35PM]:_

 _you think i am cute?_

[6:36PM]:

Yeah, no. I don't. It's called sarcasm.

[6:37PM]:

I was being sarcastic.

 _[6:38PM]:_

 _that is cute_

[6:39PM]:

Don't do that.

 _[6:39PM]:_

 _do what?_

[6:40PM]:

Don't parrot me.

 _[6:40PM]:_

 _;-)_

[6:41PM]:

Did you just wink at me?

[6:41PM]:

And why does it have a nose?

[6:42PM]:

Even this old man knows that you don't put a nose in a smiley face.

 _[6:45PM]:_

 _talk later, pal_

[6:46PM]:

No, we won't.

[6:47PM]:

And we're not pals.

 _[6:51PM]:_

 _:-)_

* * *

MON 11 MAY

[1:36PM]:

So.

 _[1:37PM]:_

 _yes?_

[1:37PM]:

How do I actually know that you're not a serial killer?

 _[1:37PM]:_

 _how do i know that you are not one?_

[1:38PM]:

I'm not.

 _[1:38PM]:_

 _ok?_

 _[1:38PM]:_

 _garlic or herb bread?_

[1:39PM]:

Seriously?

 _[1:39PM]:_

 _i am very serious_

 _[1:39PM]:_

 _i am always serious_

[1:41PM]:

Sure you are, kid.

 _[1:41PM]:_

 _i am not a child_

[1:42PM]:

Really? How old are you?

 _[1:42PM]:_

 _old enough_

[1:42PM]:

That's something a child would say.

 _[1:43PM]:_

 _how old are you, old man?_

[1:43PM]:

Old.

 _[1:43PM]:_

 _how old_

[1:44PM]:

Old.

 _[1:44PM]:_

 _how old?_

[1:45PM]:

Very frail and old.

 _[1:46PM]:_

 _what do i call you_

[1:47PM]:

You don't call me anything.

 _[1:47PM]:_

 _then i will keep calling you old man_

[1:48PM]:

.. **..**

[1:49PM]:

My name's Clint.

[1:50PM]:

Happy? I told you my name.

[1:51PM]:

Now will you stop calling me old man?

 _[1:52PM]:_

 _i will only call you old man when you act like one_

[1:54PM]:

I told you my name, so what's yours?

[1:56PM]:

Fair's fair.

[1:57PM]:

I'll just keep calling you kid, if that's what you really want.

 _[1:59PM]:_

 _pietro_

 _[2:06PM]:_

 _i will go slower this time old man_

 _[2:06PM]:_

 _try to keep up._

 _[2:06PM]:_

 _ready?_

 _[2:07PM]:_

 _pietro_

[2:09PM]:

?

 _[2:10PM]:_

 _i can sound it out for you, old man_

[2:11PM]:

Piss off, Pietro.

 _[2:13PM]:_

 _you like talking to me_

[2:15PM]:

I really don't.

[2:16PM]:

All you ever do is send me stupid pictures of kittens.

[2:17PM]:

Or ask me to pick your salsa for you.

[2:18PM]:

You're just some kid that talks too much and uses way too many question marks.

[2:21PM]:

So now he goes quiet, of course.

[2:22PM]:

Seriously?

* * *

TUES 12 MAY

[7:54PM]:

You're still doing the whole silent treatment thing?

[7:55PM]:

I really don't have time for this.

[7:58PM]:

.. **..**

[8:06PM]:

Look, kid. I don't know which part of what I said upset you, and if I'm being honest I don't really care.

[8:07PM]:

None of it was bullshit.

[8:08PM]:

Seriously, kid?

 _[8:09PM]:_

 _pietro_

[8:10PM]:

Really? We're doing this again?

[8:10PM]:

I know what your name is.

 _[8:11PM]:_

 _not kid_

 _[8:11PM]:_

 _pietro_

[8:12PM]:

I'll only call you a kid when you act like one.

[8:12PM]:

Sound fair?

 _[8:15PM]:_

 _fine._

[8:21PM]:

What, no more questions for me?

 _[8:22PM]:_

 _i have one_

[8:24PM]:

Ok. What is it?

 _[8:26PM]:_

 _why do you say you don't like talking to me_

 _[8:26PM]:_

 _but you still text back?_

[8:27PM]:

.. **..**

[8:29PM]:

I don't know.

* * *

TUES 12 MAY

 _[11:09PM]:_

 _are you still awake?_

[11:10PM]:

Yes. Don't you have a curfew or something?

 _[11:11PM]:_

 _haha_

 _[11:12PM]:_

 _so the old man makes jokes_

 _[11:13PM]:_

 _you are not normally this funny_

[11:14PM]:

Did you need something?

[11:14PM]:

Can't decide what to have for dinner?

[11:15PM]:

Or what PJ's to wear to bed?

 _[11:16PM]:_

 _i am bored_

[11:17PM]:

So?

 _[11:18PM]:_

 _so i want to talk to you_

 _[11:21PM]:_

 _?_

[11:21PM]:

What do you want to talk about?

 _[11:22PM]:_

 _what do you do for fun?_

[11:23PM]:

Old men don't have fun.

[11:25PM]:

What do you do?

 _[11:26PM]:_

 _i run_

[11:27PM]:

Like what, away from the cops or something?

 _[11:28PM]:_

 _ha ha_

 _[11:28PM]:_

 _very funny_

[11:30PM]:

So, you run? Why?

 _[11:31PM]:_

 _because i enjoy it_

[11:32PM]:

You get bored easily, don't you?

 _[11:33PM]:_

 _i dont see why that matters_

[11:33PM]:

You get hopped up on candy and soda, and go running? Sounds about right.

 _[11:34PM]:_

 _do you sit around all day and do boring old man stuff_

[11:38PM]:

Go to sleep, kid.

 _[11:39PM]:_

 _but im not tired, just bored?_

[11:45PM]:

Not my problem.

* * *

WED 13 MAY

 _[8:07AM]:_

 _hi_

 _[8:08AM]:_

 _old man, are you there?_

[8:17AM]:

Can't talk.

 _[8:18AM]:_

 _oh_

 _[8:18AM]:_

 _too busy for even me?_

[8:21AM]:

Yes.

[8:24AM]:

I'll talk to you later.

 _[8:25AM]:_

 _is that a promise_

[8:26AM]:

No.

[8:28AM]:

We'll see.

 _[8:28AM]:_

 _:-)_

[8:34AM]:

Kid?

 _[8:35AM]:_

 _?_

[8:37AM]:

Nothing.

[8:39AM]:

Go run some of that energy off and stop bothering me.

* * *

clint's lonely, and pietro's lovable af


	3. Chapter 3

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

* * *

WED 13 MAY  


[7:24PM]:

Hey.

[7:25PM]:

Did you end up going for that run?

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _no_

 _[7:26PM]:_

 _we went to the markets instead_

[7:27PM]:

.. **..**

[7:28PM]:

We?

 _[7:29PM]:_

 _yes, i went with wanda_

[7:30PM]:

Ah, the infamous Wanda.

 _[7:31PM]:_

 _she is my sister_

 _[7:31PM]:_

 _do you have any?_

[7:34PM]:

No. And that's all I have to say about that.

 _[7:35PM]:_

 _ok_

 _[7:35PM]:_

 _what did you do today?_

[7:37PM]:

You mean apart from old man stuff?

 _[7:38PM]:_

 _yes. apart from that_

[7:40PM]:

Nice try. I'm not telling you where I work.

 _[7:41PM]:_

 _it was worth a shot_

 _[7:44PM]:_

 _:-)_

[7:44PM]:

Again, with the noses.

 _[7:44PM]:_

 _you should try it sometime_

[7:45PM]:

Try what, having a nose?

 _[7:45PM]:_

 _smiling_

[7:46PM]:

You can't even see my face, kid. How do you know I'm not already smiling?

 _[7:47PM]:_

 _i can just tell_

[7:48PM]:

Do go on.

 _[7:50PM]:_

 _you seem sad_

 _[7:51PM]:_

 _and also angry_

 _[7:58PM]:_

 _? ? ?_

 _[8:14PM]:_

 _clint?_

* * *

WED 13 MAY

[11:37PM]:

You awake, kid?

[11:40PM]:

Of course you're not.

[11:46PM]:

Let's just forget about earlier.

[11:48PM]:

:-)

[11:51PM]:

I even did it with that stupid nose you like.

[11:57PM]:

Night.

* * *

THURS 14 MAY

 _[9:04AM]:_

 _i knew it! ! !_

[9:13AM]:

It's way too early for this.

 _[9:14AM]:_

 _i knew you liked me_

 _[9:15AM]:_

 _you did the face_

 _[9:15AM]:_

 _:-)_

[9:19AM]:

Would you believe me if I said someone stole my phone and sent those messages?

[9:20AM]:

What if I said I was very, very drunk?

[9:24AM]:

No?

[9:25AM]:

Crap.

 _[9:28AM]:_

 _admit it, you like me  
_

[9:30AM]:

You're ok when you're not being a pain in my ass.

[9:31AM]:

99% of the time you're a pain.

 _[9:31AM]:_

 _and the other 1% of the time?_

[9:34AM]:

You're not so bad.

 _[9:34AM]:_

 _not so bad? is that a compliment_

[9:38AM]:

No?

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _i'll take it_

[9:41AM]:

Of course you will.

* * *

THURS 14 MAY

[11:01AM]:

You never did say how old you were.

 _[11:26AM]:_

 _does it matter? ?_

[11:27AM]:

Yeah, it kinda does matter.

[11:30AM]:

I don't really want to be talking to a minor.

[11:31AM]:

Also, I think that's the slowest you've ever replied. Something wrong, Speedy? Strain a muscle doing jack shit all day?

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _i'm not a minor_

 _[11:40AM]:_

 _and why are you calling me speedy? ?  
_

[11:45AM]:

You're kidding, right?

 _[11:46AM]:_

 _?_

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _is it because i am fast?_

[11:53AM]:

Hahaha. Google it, kid

 _[11:55AM]:_

 _im 25_

 _[11:56AM]:_

 _not a kid_

[11:57AM]:

Compared to me? Yeah, you are.

 _[11:58AM]:_

 _how old are you?_

[11:58AM]:

Old enough to know who Speedy Gonzales is.

* * *

THURS 14 MAY

[2:07PM]:

You free this weekend?

 **[2:08PM]:**

 **yes**

[2:10PM]:

Wow. That was quick.

 **[2:14PM]:**

 **what can I say? I really need an excuse to get out of this dinner.  
**

 **[2:15PM]:**

 **you're a life saver**

[2:17PM]:

Hey, I'm always happy to be somebody's excuse.

 **[2:18PM]:**

 **what will we be doing?**

 **[2:19PM]:**

 **it better be good.**

[2:24PM]:

I have beer?

 **[2:26PM]:**

 **can we go to the shooting range?**

 **[2:28PM]:**

 **we're also going to a bar. or two.**

 **[2:28PM]:**

 **you're not sitting around moping all weekend, Barton.**

 **[2:28PM]:**

 **not on my time.**

[2:30PM]:

Come down on the Saturday.

 **[2:31PM]:**

 **see you then ;)**

[2:34PM]:

Looking forward to it, Nat. x

* * *

THURS 14 MAY

[4:31PM]:

Next you'll tell me you don't know who Road Runner is.

[4:37PM]:

No? You don't know?

[4:38PM]:

Meep meep?

 _[4:40PM]:_

 _why are you saying that to me?_

 _[4:41PM]:_

 _what is a meep_

[4:45PM]:

Oh, jeez. You're young. So damn young.

 _[4:46PM]:_

 _jeez? really?_

[4:47PM]:

Might want to dial down the judgment, kid.

[4:48PM]:

You don't even know who Road Runner is. You're in no position to judge.

 _[4:50PM]:_

 _just so you know,_

[4:50PM]:

This should be interesting. Keep going.

 _[4:51PM]:_

 _i am not a mouse with a funny hat_

[4:51PM]:

Sombrero.

 _[4:51PM]:_

 _?_

[4:51PM]:

It's called a sombrero.

[4:52PM]:

You should know, since you wear one.

[4:52PM]:

Speedy.

 _[4:52PM]:_

 _sometimes you make good jokes_

 _[4:53PM]:_

 _this is not one of those times_

[4:57PM]:

Meep meep?

* * *

THURS 14 MAY

[10:28PM]:

Really? You're not even going to bite?

 _[10:34PM]:_

 _i am not familiar with that expression_

 _[10:36PM]:_

 _why would i bite you?_

 _[10:37PM]:_

 _do you want me to bite you_

[10:40PM]:

Uh, no. I'm good.

[10:41PM]:

It's like taking the bait when someone teases you.

[10:45PM]:

Doesn't matter.

 _[10:47PM]:_

 _i think of you often_

[10:49PM]:

.. **..**

 _[10:51PM]:_

 _like when i am running through the park_

 _[10:52PM]:_

 _and i see the old men playing chess_

[10:53PM]:

And there it is.

[10:54PM]:

Are you always this much of an ass?

 _[10:55PM]:_

 _;-)_

[10:59PM]:

Look, since we're being honest...

[10:59PM]:

There's something I have to say.

[11:01PM]:

I think of you. A lot.

[11:01PM]:

Like the other day I saw this kid at the park.

[11:02PM]:

And I thought to myself, this kid is going to grow up to be an asshole.

[11:03PM]:

I mean, I've never seen a kid that small throw such a big tantrum.

[11:04PM]:

Kinda reminds me of you. :-)

 _[11:06PM]:_

 _what a nice story, old man. i bet you have a lot of stories, don't you?_

 _[11:07PM]:_

 _you probably have more stories than you do teeth_

[11:08PM]:

Bite me.

 _[11:12PM]:_

 _you are into that?  
_

[11:15PM]:

Night, brat.

 _[11:16PM]:_

 _but it is still so early_

 _[11:17PM]:_

 _okay fine. good night_

 _[11:18PM]:_

 _dont forget to put your teeth in a glass before you go to sleep  
_

[11:21PM]:

That's original. Remind me why I still talk to you?

 _[11:22PM]:_

 _you like me_

 _[11:24PM]:_

 _did i mention how charming i am_

[11:27PM]:

Yeah, right. Who's making shit up now?

 _[11:29PM]:_

 _sweet dreams, old man_

[11:32PM]:

They'll only be sweet if you're not in them.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

FRI 15 MAY

[8:02AM]:

Going for a run today?

 _[8:06AM]:_

 _is it the end of the world?_

[8:10AM]:

I haven't looked outside yet.

 _[8:10AM]:_

 _then im going for a run._

[8:11AM]:

Somebody's in a good mood today.

 _[8:16AM]:_

 _how did you sleep?_

[8:17AM]:

I didn't. Not really.

 _[8:17AM]:_

 _that explains why you are awake so early_

[8:18AM]:

I've got stuff to do.

 _[8:23AM]:_

 _we will talk later then._

[8:26AM]:

Fine by me.

* * *

FRI 15 MAY

 _[12:08PM]:_

 _were they sweet?_

 _[12:15PM]:_

 _your dreams?_

[12:24PM]:

So he speaks.

 _[12:26PM]:_

 _you missed me_

 _[12:28PM]:_

 _did you take care of business?_

[12:30PM]:

Excuse me?

 _[12:30PM]:_

 _you said you had stuff to do_

[12:31PM]:

And I did it. How was your run?

 _[12:32PM]:_

 _good_

 _[12:32PM]:_

 _i thought i saw you in the park today_

 _[12:32PM]:_

 _turns out it was just another old man playing chess_

[12:33PM]:

Again, with the old man bullshit.

[12:35PM]:

Come to think of it, I saw you today. Multiple times.

[12:35PM]:

Babies everywhere.

[12:36PM]:

They almost cried as much as you do.

 _[12:38PM]:_

 _choc or strawberry_

[12:39PM]:

Strawberry.

 _[12:39PM]:_

 _what are you doing tonight?_

[12:40PM]:

Why? Want to tag along?

 _[12:40PM]:_

 _just curious_

[12:40PM]:

You're always curious.

[12:40PM]:

.. **..**

[12:41PM]:

Probably nothing.

 _[12:41PM]:_

 _wanda is going to see a movie_

 _[12:44PM]:_

 _want to watch one with me?_

[12:45PM]:

With you?

[12:45PM]:

How would that work?

 _[12:46PM]:_

 _it is easy, really_

 _[12:46PM]:_

 _see what movie is on the television tonight_

 _[12:47PM]:_

 _watch it together, even if we are apart_

 _[12:48PM]:_

 _understand?_

[12:49PM]:

Yeah, I caught the gist of it.

 _[12:51PM]:_

 _is that a fancy way or saying yes?_

[12:52PM]:

It's my way of saying that I'm still getting used to this.

 _[12:53PM]:_

 _to texting?_

[12:54PM]:

I'm still getting used to you. To this.

[12:54PM]:

I think I spend more time talking to you than I do anyone else.

 _[12:54PM]:_

 _i knew you liked me_

 _[12:55PM]:_

 _so we are on for tonight?_

[12:56PM]:

Yeah, I guess we are.

 _[12:57PM]:_

 _:-)_

* * *

FRI 15 MAY

 _[2:43PM]:_

 _? ? ? ? ? ?_

 _[2:45PM]:_

 _? ? ?_

 _[2:48PM]:_

 _?_

[2:52PM]:

Seriously?

 _[2:53PM]:_

 _i'm trying to get your attention_

[2:58PM]:

You've succeeded.

[2:59PM]:

So? What is it?

 _[3:01PM]:_

 _do you have snapchat?_

[3:05PM]:

Wow, only one question mark.

[3:06PM]:

You must be very serious. And no, I don't.

 _[3:09PM]:_

 _do you even know what it is_

[3:11PM]:

I'm really not THAT old. I know what it is.

 _[3:14PM]:_

 _then get it_

[3:16PM]:

What if I don't want it?

[3:16PM]:

 _i want to show you something_

[3:17PM]:

Maybe I don't want to see it.

 _[3:22PM]:_

 _ugh_

 _[3:23PM]:_

 _you are ruining this_

[3:24PM]:

Ok, fine. You win.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _add me once it is done_

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _quicksilver007_

[3:27PM]:

I have so many questions.

[3:28PM]:

Ok, but 007? Really, Speedy?

 _[3:30PM]:_

 _wanda likes the bond films_

[3:31PM]:

And what about quicksilver?

[3:34PM]:

Who's he supposed to be? Some kind of superhero?

 _[3:36PM]:_

 _:(_

 _[3:37PM]:_

 _you ask too many questions_

[3:39PM]:

Says Mr.? ? ? ? ? ? himself.

* * *

FRI 15 MAY

Clint's thumb hovers over the _SEND_ button. He did as Pietro asked, and downloaded the app. He's still figuring out the mechanics of Snapchat - it seems pretty basic. You take a photo, caption it, send it. That's it. Clint opted for a shot of Lucky sleeping on his small bed by the door; soft afteroon light pours in through the screen door, casting light over his golden fur. Clint gives his head a soft pat, before he stands and starts to pace.

He hits the arrow and sends the snap. After it sends, he's taken back to the main menu. There's a small red arrow right next to Pietro's account.

 **quicksilver007**

Much to Clint's frustration, he has no idea what that means. He doesn't understand any of it, really.

The inside of the arrow turns white, and then goes blue, and Clint really has no fucking idea what's going on. His phone vibrates, except it's not a text: a message comes through from **quicksilver007** and Clint has to bite the inside of his mouth to stop from laughing, because really, this kid is something else.

 _really?_

 _that is the username you're going with?_

 _luckybarton?_

 _are you hoping to get lucky_

 _and who is barton?_

 _cute dog_

Clint closes the app and opens up his messages. He starts typing up a response, because he really doesn't want to deal with the reds and blues and inbetweens of Snapchat. It's been enough for one day, he thinks. Besides, there's not much around the farm to take photos of, not really - there's nothing a twenty something year old with an incredibly short attention span and a mouth that works a mile a minute would want to see. He sends the text without delay.

[4:03PM]:

Lucky is the name of my dog.

 _[4:05PM]:_

 _oh_

 _[4:05PM]:_

 _sure it is_

 _[4:06PM]:_

 _;-)_

[4:09PM]:

It actually is. His name is Lucky.

 _[4:11PM]:_

 _who is barton?_

[4:16PM]:

I am.

[4:16PM]:

It's my surname.

[4:17PM]:

What's yours?

 _[4:18PM]:_

 _your dog is cute_

 _[4:18PM]:_

 _it only has one eye?_

[4:21PM]:

Yeah. Lucky hasn't been so lucky in life.

[4:22PM]:

Ironic, isn't it?

 _[4:23PM]:_

 _i like him_

[4:26PM]:

.. **..**

[4:27PM]:

Too bad, he's not for sale.

[4:29PM]:

Go buy a kitten or something, kid.

 _[4:31PM]:_

 _again with the kid thing_

[4:32PM]:

I thought you had something to show me?

Clint's phone buzzes suddenly, and a small notification in the shape of a small ghost appears at the top of the screen. He clicks the notification, opens Snapchat, and holds down on the red square - this was the only tip that Pietro gave him; _when the square goes red, press it_. That's it. That's the only advice he offered. There's a 10 second timer on the image, and that _really_ isn't long enough, Clint decides.

 _9 seconds_

All he can do is stare. Clint blinks once, twice.

Shit.

 _8 seconds_

If this really is Pietro - and not a friend, or a distant cousin, or Wanda's boyfriend - then Pietro has sharp blue eyes, stark white hair that almost looks silver under that light, and a kitten in his lap. Clint stares dumbly at the image, at the stupid grin plastered across Pietro's face (because he knows, he _knows_ he looks good.) and Clint really can't look away.

 _4 seconds_

Pietro's reclined on a couch of some description, one arm propped back under his head and a kitten stretched out across his lap. He's wearing a dark hooded jacket and denim jeans, and he looks like he just woke up from a nap, really, with the way his hair is going in every which way direction.

 _1 second_

The image disappears. Clint stares down at his phone. It vibrates.

 _[4:34PM]:_

 _i have not thought of a name for her._

 _[4:35PM]:_

 _what do you think?_

[4:36PM]:

Of her, or of you?

 _[4:38PM]:_

 _of her?_

 _[4:38PM]:_

 _but we will get back to me_

 _[4:39PM]:_

 _i think i will name her old man_

[4:46PM]:

I think she looks like a snowball.

[4:50PM]:

Is that why you picked her? So the two of you can have matching hairdos?

 _[4:52PM]:_

 _it took you that long to think of that?_

 _[4:52PM]:_

 _that is a very bad joke_

 _[4:56PM]:_

 _wanda made the same joke._

[4:57PM]:

I'm really starting to like your sister.

[4:58PM]:

Be more like Wanda.

* * *

 **A/N:** we should all aspire to be more like Wanda Maximoff.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

also, Wanda makes an appearance. Kind of.

* * *

SAT 16 MAY

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _it was really not so bad_

[1:24AM]:

Hellboy II was better.

 _[1:24AM]:_

 _there are more than one?_

[1:26AM]:

We're not watching it together.

[1:26AM]:

Wanna know why? Because you weren't even paying attention.

[1:27AM]:

You spent the whole time sending me pictures of your ridiculous fluffball excuse for a cat.

[1:28AM]:

Which, by the way, is really tiny.

 _[1:28AM]:_

 _you like her :-)_

[1:28AM]:

No.

[1:30AM]:

Do you ever sit still? Like ever? Can you even watch a movie?

[1:31AM]:

I bet you can't even sit through a 30 second commercial.

 _[I:31AM]:_

 _are you grumpy because it is past your bedtime_

 _[1:32AM]:_

 _perhaps you should take a nap_

[1:32AM]:

Maybe I don't want to sleep.

[1:33AM]:

Maybe I like talking to you. Is that so hard to believe?

 _[1:34AM]:_

 _do you?_

[1:34AM]:

I'm still talking to you, aren't I?

 _[1:34AM]:_

 _you are not very easy on me_

[1:35AM]

Yeah, like you're easy on me.

[1:35AM]:

Lay off with the old man bullshit and I'll lay off calling you kid. Deal?

 _[1:35AM]:_

 _that is not what i meant_

[1:35AM]:

Oh, ok.

[1:36AM]:

Then what do you mean?

 _[1:36AM]:_

 _you talk a lot but you don't say much_

[1:37AM]:

Ok? I don't really know what that means.

 _[1:37AM]:_

 _are we friends?_

[1:37AM]:

Do you want us to be?

 _[1:37AM]:_

 _yes_

 _[1:38AM]:_

 _i think of you as a friend even if you don't see me as one_

[1:38AM]:

Who says I don't see you as one?

 _[1:40AM]:_

 _you have. many times_

[1:41AM]:

Look, this is just new for me.

[1:41AM]:

Sometimes I don't know how to talk to you because you're just some kid that messaged me by accident.

 _[1:42AM]:_

 _if you don't like talking to me then don't._

[1:42AM]:

That's not what I said.

[1:45AM]:

I said I sometimes don't know how to talk to you.

 _[1:45AM]:_

 _then dont? problem solved_

 _[1:47AM]:_

 _you know i usually dont have to try so hard to make friends_

[1:48AM]:

Yeah, I get it. You're not bad looking so you make friends easy. Good for you.

[1:50AM]:

If you don't usually have to try this hard, then why are you?

[2:04AM]:

I don't know how to talk to you. That doesn't mean I don't want to.

[2:07AM]:

Pietro?

* * *

SAT 16 MAY

[8:36AM]:

I take it you're still pissed.

[8:48AM]:

I don't know what you want me to say that I haven't already said.

[8:52AM]:

You're really just going to ignore my messages?

 _[8:53AM]:_

 _.._ _ **..**_

[8:58AM]:

I know you read the messages, Pietro. It says so.

[8:59AM]:

It also says you were typing.

[8:59AM]:

Seriously?

* * *

SAT 16 MAY

INCOMING CALL: **speedy**

Clint blinks down at his phone. He's barely out of bed, really. Only just woke up, sent Pietro a few texts, then headed downstairs. Clint sits up from where he had been reclining on the couch with a bowl of cereal propped on his chest. He sets that down on the coffee table and goes back to his phone, bracing himself for whatever is about to happen. For a second he wonders if Pietro has dialled him by accident. Maybe he shouldn't even answer - but something prompts him to, so he follows that instinct.

"Lay it on me, kid."

He hears nothing - no response, not even a word, or a scoff (he imagines Pietro is quite skilled at those, along with eyerolls) and he almost considers hanging up, until he hears movement on the other end, and then, _finally_ , a voice, but it isn't the one he was hoping for, isn't really what he expected.

 _"This is Wanda_."

"Oh. Wanda as in Pietro's older sister Wanda."

 _"Not older,"_ she corrects. _"We are twins."_

"It's nice to finally put a voice to the, well. Not the face. To the reputation. Pietro talks about you a lot."

 _"He says many things about you as well, Clint Barton."_

"Does he?" Clint asks and swallows over the lump in his throat.

When she doesn't answer, Clint clears his throat, gives her one last chance to speak before he gives it another shot.

"So. Speaking of the Quick Little Bastard, where is?"

 _"He is sleeping_."

 _Why?_ Clint almost asks, but settles for, "He never sleeps this late."

He doesn't realize the words are out of his mouth until Wanda makes a noise on the end of the line - something like disapproval. He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, and waits, because he figures she surely has something to say. There's more movement, and Clint can't tell if she's going outside, or stepping inside, but he hears what sounds like a door closing, and then Wanda suddenly sounds closer, clearer. Her accent is sharper, more defined. Clint briefly wonders where they are from.

 _"He tells me many things about you."_

"Only good things, I hope."

" _Not always."_ a pause. _"Why do you talk to him?_

"I'm not some creep, ok? He messaged me first because he thought I was you and wanted me - or you, really - to pick out a kitten." Clint says and scoops up a spoonful of cornflakes. He shoves them into his mouth and chews, and thinks he hears Wanda make another small noise of disapproval on the other end. "He talked to me first and he wouldn't stop talking, so here we are."

 _"Here we are."_

"Do you always sound this intimidating?"

 _"My brother does not have many friends."_

"And that's somehow my fault? Look, kid-"

 _"He does not want to run today, and I can't help but think it has something to do with you."_

Clint drops his spoon into the bowl of milk and cornflakes, and sinks back into the couch. "He's taking it that badly?"

 _"Like I said, he does not have many friends but thinks of you as one."_ comes Wanda's unhurried reply, like she's got all day to deal with Clint and his bullshit, but she'd really rather not. " _You said he was just some kid? Perhaps, to you. To me, he is sweet and special - if you do not see that then it can't be helped."_

"He isn't just a kid to me." Clint quietly confesses.

 _"Oh?"_

"Maybe he's not so bad."

 _"Funny,"_ she murmurs. _"He says the same things about you."_

"Just - just tell him to drag his ass out of bed and stop sooking. It's not the end of the world," Clint says. "I'm an asshole to all of my friends. Tell him he needs to get used to it, if he plans on being a pain in my ass for the rest of my days."

 _"From what he tells me, you are an old man with very limited days left."_

"And there it is." Clint sighs. "Of course you're twins. I see it now. Bye-bye, sweetheart."

The call cuts out before he can hear her response, and Clint is almost glad for that. If there's one thing that scares him more than Pietro's strange fondness for question marks, it's Wanda. He sets his phone down on the oak coffee table, and flicks the TV on because he _really_ needs something to keep his eyes on, needs to stop staring at his phone as if he will somehow be able to conjure a text from Pietro. He's just starting to doze off again - even though he really, really shouldn't - when his phone goes off loudly; that sharp, shrill chime startles Clint immediately.

 **[10:31AM]:**

 **still up for this weekend, Barton?**

[10:32AM]:

Why don't we kick it off tonight?

[10:33AM]:

Could really use a drink. Or four. Maybe six.

 **[10:35AM]:**

 **is it ok if Steve tags along?**

[10:36AM]:

Just keep Stark away. That's my only rule.

[10:38AM]:

You know what happened last time we drank with Stark.

[10:39PM]:

We don't speak of what happened last time we drank wtih Stark.

 **[10:40AM]:**

 **mhm. see you tonight ;)**

* * *

apologies for the lack of pietro in this chapter - he went quiet after the lovers' quarrel, but don't worry, there will be plenty of him in the next chapter (which is already written, and i could easily post later tonight or tomorrow. i'd do it now, but i'm having people over so i have to rush this bye)


	6. Chapter 6

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

SUN 17 MAY

The first thing Clint does when he wakes is curse Natasha, curse himself, and _then_ Stark - because he knew, he just knew that he would weasel his way into their weekend somehow. It was supposed to be Clint and Nat, just like the old days. Then it was Clint and Nat, plus Steve. He didn't mind Steve tagging along, not really. Steve was a happy-ish drunk, when he wasn't talking about Bucky this, and Bucky _that_.

But then there was Stark, and Clint really doesn't even want to think about that right now.

He rolls over onto his back, winces at the harsh morning light spilling in through the window, and lifts an arm to his face, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun. His skull is pounding and his mouth tastes like an ashtray, and _that_ he also blames on Stark. If the world were to end right now, right in this very moment, he'd probably blame Stark for that as well.

With a groan, he pushes himself up from the bed, knees clicking and locking along the way, and _shit_ , he feels old, too old for Stark's shit.

Clint draws the curtains across and crawls back into bed with every intention of staying there - until his phone goes off. It keeps buzzing, until Clint groans and fumbles for it blindly, knocking it off the bedside stand and onto the floor. Clint half-groans, half-whimpers, and stretches for the phone until his fingers curl around it in victory.

[10:47AM] INCOMING CALL: **LAURA**

He lets the call go to voicemail. Doesn't really feel like doing that, not yet, not this early and with a hangover this bad. Clint unlocks the phone with a single swipe and stares down at the list of notifications, blinking hard to clear his vision.

 **(3) New Messages**

 **(1) Missed Call**

 **(1) New Voicemail**

He flicks through the messages slowly, surprised to see that Pietro is finally talking to him. And, according to Clint's most recent messages, they've been getting rather chatty. Clint's heart lurches in his chest because he doesn't remember texting Pietro. He remembers Nat stopping by, with a somewhat apologetic look on her face as he opened the door.

A second later, Stark burst inside. Clint remembers shuddering - it felt as if a ghost or demon had crossed the threshold.

He remembers the drive to the bar, the many drinks, the way that Steve and Tony bickered for _hours_ like an old married couple. More drinks, after that. The liqour helped loosen his tongue, made him finally break the silence and message Pietro.

Clint scrolls up until he reaches what is the very first message of the night, and it is quite possibly the worst. He doesn't even need to read the others, not yet, not when this one is so cringeworthy. Clint wants to throw his phone across the room and crawl back under the covers, but it's too late. The messages are already gone. Lost, just like the rest of Clint's dignity.

[9:56PM]:

god i miss you

[9:59PM]:

its not fair. we dont even know each other

[10:03PM]:

so why do i miss you

[10:26PM]:

so mr Im Too Pretty To Make Friends is still ignoring me?

[10:28PM]:

i dontr know what im doing

 _[10:34PM]:_

 _is something wrong?_

[10:39PM]:

you stopped talking to me

[10:39PM]:

does that count?

 _[10:45PM]:_

 _you have been drinking_

 _[10:46PM]:_

 _why was I not invited?_

[10:49PM]:

too young

 _[10:50PM]:_

 _here we go again_

[10:52PM]:

not for drunk. for me.

 _[10:53PM]:_

 _.._ _ **...**_

 _[10:55PM]:_

 _there is something I need to say_

 _[10:56PM]:_

 _can I call you?_

[10:58PM]:

yes

And just like that, Clint's headache suddenly becomes much, _much_ worse.

The text messages end after that, much to Clint's dismay. He doesn't remember. Not that, not the sound of Pietro's voice, or whatever it is that he had to tell Clint. Something in his stomach lurches when he brings up call history and sees an incoming call at 11:03PM that lasted for 47 whole minutes. He promptly shoves his phone under his pillow and pretends that doing so will somehow make everything better.

Clint flops back down on the bed with a sigh, and drags the covers back up over his head.

 _Shit._

* * *

SUN 17 MAY

 _[1:11PM]:_

 _are we not going to speak of last night?_

 _[1:12PM]:_

 _that is if you are awake_

[1:16PM]:

So he's talking to me now?

[1:16PM]:

I was getting used to talking to myself. What with all the silent treatment that was going on...

[1:17PM]:

And then I spoke to Wanda, which was just delightful.

 _[1:18PM]:_

 _big night last night eh?_

 _[1:18PM]:_

 _was there a special occasion?_

[1:19PM]:

That depends on what you define as "special".

 _[1:24PM]:_

 _oh?_

[1:25PM]:

Beer and bad jokes. That's really it.

 _[1:26PM]:_

 _that is not so bad_

[1:30PM]:

Really? I figured kittens and cronuts would be more of your thing.

 _[1:31PM]:_

 _well you figured wrong ;-)_

 _[1:33PM]:_

 _so are we going to speak of last night?_

[1:34PM]:

I'm almost afraid to ask.

[1:35PM]:

But I'm going to anyway. What did I say? Was it really that bad?

[1:36PM]:

Please keep in mind that I was very, very drunk.

 _[1:38PM]:_

 _you mentioned something about your undying love for me_

 _[1:39PM]:_

 _and how you are sorry for being such a grump all the time_

 _[1:41PM]:_

 _you also said that you were going to give me lucky as consolation_

[1:43PM]:

Consolation? For what?

 _[1:45PM]:_

 _for having to suffer your friendship_

 _[1:47PM]:_

 _:-)_

[1:49PM]:

Nice try, brat. Lucky and I have a bond. You wouldn't understand.

 _[1:51PM]:_

 _so do snowball and I_

[1:52PM]:

You mean that feather duster excuse for a cat? You seriously named it snowball?

 _[1:53PM]:_

 _why not_

 _[1:54PM]:_

 _you suggested the name_

[1:55PM]:

I wasn't being serious. You realize that, don't you?

 _[1:56PM]:_

 _yes_

 _[1:56PM]:_

 _I just happen to like the name_

 _[1:57PM]:_

 _also this is coming from a man that named his dog lucky_

 _[1:57PM]:_

 _because the dog is lucky? snowball is a snowball. it is the same thing._

[1:59PM]:

Hey, hey, it's all good. No need to get catty.

 _[2:01PM]:_

 _that was terrible_

 _[2:01PM]:_

 _you can do much better_

[2:04PM]:

Yeah, I know. I'll work on it. So, what else did I say to you?

 _[2:05PM]:_

 _you said that you would buy me many things. nice things._

 _[2:06PM]:_

 _also, i get your farm._

[2:08PM]:

What? Why do you get my farm?

[2:09PM]:

And how do you know I live on a farm?

 _[2:09PM]:_

 _you told me last night_

[2:10PM]:

Of course I did.

[2:12PM]:

Was this before or after I confessed my undying love for you, and promised you many nice things?

 _[2:13PM]:_

 _after_

[2:15PM]:

Anything else?

 _[2:17PM]:_

 _no, you fell asleep on me shortly after :-)_

[2:19PM]:

Did you really not read that before you sent it?

[2:19PM]:

Seriously, kid.

[2:20PM]:

I've seen your smile. You're not that naive.

 _[2:20PM]:_

 _my smile?_

[2:25PM]:

Yeah. The shit eating grin in the Snapchat you sent me of you and the fuzzball.

[2:26PM]:

 _ohhhh, yes. what did you think?_

[2:27PM]:

I already told you what I thought of Quicksilver Jnr.

 _[2:28PM]:_

 _not of her_

 _[2:29PM]:_

 _of me_

[2:32PM]:

I'm pretty sure your ego is big enough as it is.

 _[2:33PM]:_

 _you said i was not bad looking_

[2:35PM]:

Yeah? So?

 _[2:36PM]:_

 _so, nothing_

 _[2:38PM]:_

 _will I ever get to see what you look like?_

[2:45PM]:

But you've already seen what I look like?

[2:46PM]:

You see me every morning, playing chess with the other old guys.

 _[2:47PM]:_

 _cliiiiiiiiiiint_

[2:48PM]:

pieeeeeeetro

 _[2:51PM]:_

 _:(_

 _[2:59PM]:_

 _check your snapchat. i am making second lunch._

[3:02PM]:

Second lunch? What are you, a hobbit?

 _[3:03PM]:_

 _it is called second breakfast, not second lunch_

[3:06PM]:

So he knows what a hobbit is, but has no clue who Roadrunner is.

[3:13PM]:

Those pancakes don't actually look half bad.

 _[3:19PM]:_

 _honey or maple syrup?_

[3:20PM]:

Maple. Were those blueberries on the side?

 _[3:24PM]:_

 _mmmmmm yes_

[3:25PM]:

As much as I want to sit here and visualize what you look like while eating pancakes, I gotta go.

 _[3:26PM]:_

 _:-)_

[3:28PM]:

:-)

* * *

SUN 17 MAY

[11:29PM]:

So here's what I wanna know.

[11:29PM]:

How did you manage to get Wanda's number mixed up with mine?

 _[11:31PM]:_

 _she changed her number. wrote it down for me. i read the digits wrong._

[11:32PM]:

She sure is something else.

 _[11:35PM]:_

 _yes she is_

 _[11:37PM]:_

 _we have always looked out for each other_

[11:39PM]:

I get that.

[11:39PM]:

Did she tell you about our conversation?

 _[11:40PM]:_

 _we tell each other everything_

[11:41PM]:

Don't tell her that I said she scares me. Maybe leave that part out?

 _[11:42PM]:_

 _maybe. we will see. :-)_

 _[11:46PM]:_

 _what are you up to?_

[11:49PM]:

Having some beers while watching the game.

[11:51PM]:

 _careful, old man. if you drink too much you might confess your love to me again.._

[11:53PM]:

We wouldn't want that now, would we?

 _[11:56PM]:_

 _are your friends still staying with you?_

[12:04AM]:

Yup

[12:05AM]:

They're going home tomorrow.

 _[12:08AM]:_

 _and then you will be all alone again?_

[12:10AM]:

Who says I'm alone?

 _[12:11AM]:_

 _you don't mention family._

[12:14AM]:

Yeah, well, neither do you. You only mention Wanda. That's it. You're not exactly open either.

 _[12:21AM]:_

 _wanda is my only family. our parents died when we were children._

[12:23AM]:

Oh, crap.

[12:25AM]:

I'm sorry. Really, I am.

[12:26AM]:

I feel like a dick.

 _[12:31AM]:_

 _I think of them every single day_

 _[12:34AM]:_

 _but I am grateful to have my sister. without her I would be lost._

[12:37AM]:

You were wrong, when you said I'd be all alone again. I'm not. I won't be.

 _[12:39AM]:_

 _because you have lucky?_

[12:45AM]:

And you.

 _[12:46AM]:_

 _and me. xx_

* * *

yes, Pietro really did name his kitten "Snowball" :-)


	7. Chapter 7

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

MON 18 MAY

[9:16AM]:

I made a mistake. A very big mistake.

[9:18AM]:

I gave Lucky a bath.

 _[9:24AM]:_

 _you are not usually awake so early_

 _[9:26AM]:_

 _what went wrong?_

[9:33AM]:

Guess who thought it'd be a good idea to roll around in a puddle of mud?

 _[9:35AM]:_

 _you?_

[9:37AM]:

First hint: he has four legs.

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _is it you_

[9:43AM]:

Second hint: he has one eye

 _[9:46AM]:_

 _so it is you_

[9:50AM]:

Yep, you caught me.

[9:52AM]:

That's why I won't send you any pictures.

 _[9:54AM]:_

 _because you have four legs_

[9:56AM]:

Exactly.

[9:57AM]:

I also really like mud baths.

[10:02AM]:

It's not a very pretty picture.

 _[10:06AM]:_

 _do you think that we have something in common?_

[10:09AM]:

Who? You and Lucky?

[10:11AM]:

Of course you do. Shaggy hair, puppy dog eyes, questionable hygiene standards.

 _[10:12AM]:_

 _ha ha_

[10:15AM]:

Why do I get the feeling that's a fake laugh?

 _[10:18AM]:_

 _that's because it is_

 _[10:21AM]:_

 _and i don't mean with lucky. do we have something in common? us?_

[10:24AM]:

By us do you mean you and Snowball?

 _[10:24AM]:_

 _no_

 _[10:25AM]:_

 _i mean with you_

 _[10:27AM]:_

 _do we have anything in common clint?_

[10:30AM]:

.. **..**

[10:31AM]:

Why do we need to have something in common?

[10:33AM]:

Is it important to you that we do?

[10:34AM]:

I can think of things we don't have in common.

[10:36AM]:

For example, you have questionable taste in movies. And also music.

[10:36AM]:

You also dye your hair, so.

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _lies_

[10:43AM]:

;-)

 _[10:45AM]:_

 _did you enjoy your mud bath old man_

[10:50AM]:

You bet I did, Shaggy.

[10:53AM]:

And I left pawprints EVERYWHERE.

 _[10:55AM]:_

 _how will you spend the rest of your day?_

[10:58AM]:

Gotta get to work.

[11:01AM]:

Talk later?

 _[11:07AM]:_

 _sure x_

* * *

MON 18 MAY

 _[2:49PM]:_

 _i was sad not to see you in the park today, old man. did work keep you busy?_

[2:56PM]:

You're a funny guy, Pietro.

[2:58PM]:

That joke never gets old.

[3:01PM]:

It was a quiet day actually. Clocking off now.

 _[3:08PM]:_

 _i walked the dogs today_

[3:12PM]:

You have dogs?

[3:15PM]:

How do they get along with Furball?

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _they are not my dogs_

[3:20PM]:

Oh, ok. So they're Wanda's?

 _[3:24PM]:_

 _no_

[3:27PM]:

You know you can't actually take someone else's dog, right?

[3:29PM]:

Even if you're just walking them, you still can't steal them. Big no-no.

[3:34PM]:

 _i walk them for $$$$_

 _[3:39PM]:_

 _this is my job for now_

[3:42PM]:

Oh, that makes way more sense.

[3:45PM]:

That's a pretty sweet job.

[3:48PM]:

Is that why you're in the park so much?

 _[3:52PM]:_

 _no, i am there trying to pick up old men_

 _[3:58PM]:_

 _such as yourself_

[4:03PM]:

Remind me again why I talk to you?

 _[4:05PM]:_

 _you like me_

[4:07PM]:

Uh huh. Sure I do.

 _[4:09PM]:_

 _i am very charming_

[4:11PM]:

Well that's a lie. What else you got?

 _[4:16PM]:_

 _i am good company_

[4:20PM]:

Yeah, ok. I'll give you that.

 _[4:25PM]:_

 _i am also not bad looking_

[4:30PM]:

Whatever you say, Quicksilver. :-)

 _[4:34PM]:_

 _you were the one that said it, luckybarton ;-)_

* * *

MON 18 MAY

 _[6:09PM]:_

 _i have a question_

[6:11PM]:

Just one? That's unusual.

[6:13PM]:

Go ahead. What's up?

 _[6:17PM]:_

 _did you mean what you said the other night?_

[6:21PM]:

I said a lot of things that night, kid. Remember?

[6:23PM]:

I gave you my farm. My dog. Confessed my love

[6:28PM]:

Remember?

 _[6:30PM]:_

 _no, not that night._

 _[6:32PM]:_

 _you said that you would not be alone because you had me?_

[6:35PM]:

.. **..**

[6:38PM]:

Should I not have said that?

[6:40PM]:

Is that why you've been quieter than usual lately?

 _[6:47PM]:_

 _no_

[6:49PM]:

Liar.

[6:51PM]:

If it weirded you out that much then I take it back.

 _[6:53PM]:_

 _don't_

 _[6:55PM]:_

 _i don't want you to take it back_

[6:57PM]:

You gotta tell me if I'm crossing lines here, kid.

[6:59PM]:

I meant what I said, alright? I like talking to you. When I'm talking to you, I don't feel like I'm on my own.

[7:02PM]:

But you gotta be upfront with me and tell me what lines I'm crossing.

[7:03PM]:

The last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable.

 _[7:07PM]:_

 _that is not how i am feeling_

 _[7:09PM]:_

 _you said that you are not alone because you have me?_

 _[7:11PM]:_

 _i am less lonely because i have you_

 _[7:13PM]:_

 _it does not make me uncomfortable when you say that_

 _[7:15PM]:_

 _instead i feel happy_

[7:18PM]:

Don't forget Wanda, and that Tumbleweed you call a cat.

[7:20PM]:

None of us are going anywhere.

 _[7:25PM]:_

 _i have not had many friends before_

[7:27PM]:

Sure you have. You're likable. Most of the time.

[7:29PM]:

 _wanda and i were always moving_

 _[7:30PM]:_

 _always starting again. too new. too weird._

[7:35PM]:

Yeah, kids can be assholes.

[7:39PM]:

You just have to learn to leave it all behind you.

 _[7:41PM]:_

 _you are a good friend to me_

 _[7:42PM]:_

 _most of the time_

 _[7:44PM]:_

 _;-)_

 _[7:46PM]:_

 _you tell bad jokes, but you are not so bad clint barton_

[7:47PM]:

Not so bad? I'm blushing.

[7:49PM]:

You should write poetry, kid. You've got a way with words.

 _[7:53PM]:_

 _i'm serious_

[7:56PM]:

So am I.

[7:58PM]:

You're winning my heart with your sweet poetry.

 _[8:01PM]:_

 _do you always have to make jokes_

[8:03PM]:

I can't fight it, kid.

[8:05PM]:

So. You wanna catch a movie tonight?

 _[8:07PM]:_

 _i get to pick what we watch_

[8:09PM]:

Deal.

[8:13PM]:

I'm gonna go wash up first. Feel free to make yourself at home.

 _[8:16PM]:_

 _:-P_

* * *

MON 18 MAY

[8:47PM]:

I'm back.

[8:48PM]:

Are you sticking your tongue out at me?

 _[8:50PM]:_

 _no_

 _[8:52PM]:_

 _i was._

 _[8:55PM]:_

 _that was like an hour ago clint_

 _[8:58PM]:_

 _maybe even 2. :(_

[9:03PM]:

It was 30 minutes, if that.

[9:05PM]:

Maybe 40. That's it. Stop being so dramatic.

 _[9:06PM]:_

 _in 10mins it will have been 1hr._

[9:08PM]:

Good math. I'm back now, isn't that what counts?

 _[9:10PM]:_

 _why did you take so long_

[9:12PM]:

I wasn't in the shower the entire time.

 _[9:15PM]:_

 _oh?_

[9:18PM]:

This isn't a conversation I'm having with you.

[9:20PM]:

What movie did you pick?

[9:21PM]:

Something good, I hope.

 _[9:24PM]:_

 _snowpiercer_

[9:25PM]:

It better not suck.

[9:31PM]:

I'm putting my trust in you.

 _[9:35PM]:_

 _shhhh_

 _[9:37PM]:_

 _do you always talk during movies_

* * *

MON 18 MAY

[10:49PM]:

Shit.

 _[10:53PM]:_

 _i know_

 _[10:54PM]:_

 _:((_

[10:56PM]:

Oh, man.

 _[10:57PM]:_

 _clint?_

[11:04PM]:

Yeah?

 _[11:06PM]:_

 _i dont like this_

 _[11:09PM]:_

 _i think we made a mistake_

[11:12PM]:

We? Nope. This is all on you, buddy.

[11:15PM]:

Now quit bothering me and enjoy the rest of this awful movie that you made us watch.

 _[11:18PM]:_

 _:'(_

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

[12:04AM]:

That was definitely a new experience.

[12:04AM]:

Great film choice, Pietro.

 _[12:06AM]:_

 _i did not know it would be so bad_

[12:08AM]:

"Bad" doesn't even begin to cover it.

[12:08AM]:

That was insane. And horrible.

 _[12:09AM]:_

 _perhaps we could talk about something else_

[12:11AM]:

I will gladly talk about anything else.

[12:12AM]:

Oh, I have an idea. Let's talk about how you lost your film picking privileges.

[12:12AM]:

For a month.

 _[12:15AM]:_

 _that is hardly fair_

 _[12:18AM]:_

 _it is not my fault you scare easy_

[12:20AM]:

Right, like you can talk.

[12:25AM]:

Mr. :(((((((( "Clint I don't like this"

[12:27AM]:

"Clint I'm using Snowball to shield my eyes help me"

[12:31AM]:

I bet if you were here, watching that damn movie with me, you'd have your face buried in my shoulder.

[12:31AM]:

You'd hide. That's what you'd do. But yeah, I scare easy

[12:33AM]:

I'm not scared, alright? I just don't want to be in that situation. Ever.

 _[12:40AM]:_

 _old man you need to relax_

 _[12:40AM]:_

 _if the world evers ends because of snow and there is only 1 train, i will save you_

[12:42AM]:

Is that supposed to be comforting?

[12:43AM]:

Quicksilver and Snowball to the rescue.

 _[12:45AM]:_

 _you know_

 _[12:45AM]:_

 _if i was there, i would not have my head buried in your neck_

[12:48AM]:

That right?

 _[12:50AM]:_

 _you would be the one clinging to me, mr scaredy cat_

[12:51AM]:

You wish.

 _[12:52AM]:_

 _?_

[12:54AM]:

Stupid thing to say, I know.

 _[12:55AM]:_

 _you have said stupider_

[12:56AM]:

Aren't you sweet.

[12:57AM]:

If you keep talking like that, then I'm bound to fall even harder for you.

[12:59AM]:

Consider yourself warned.

 _[1:06AM]:_

 _.._ _ **..**_

 _[1:08AM]:_

 _i can't make any promises_

 _[1:08AM]:_

 _my charm is natural to me. like your bad jokes are to you._

[1:09AM]:

Whatever you say, sweet talker.

[1:11AM]:

I can't stop thinking about that fucking movie.

 _[1:13AM]:_

 _i can distract you_

 _[1:13AM]:_

 _if you like_

[1:15AM]:

Sure, why not?

 _[1:16AM]:_

 _truth or dare?_

[1:18AM]:

You're not serious, are you?

[1:18AM]:

Of course you are.

[1:19AM]:

Next we'll be playing spin the bottle, and I'll be braiding your hair

[1:20AM]:

How is this even supposed to work?

 _[1:20AM]:_

 _we will make it work_

[1:21AM]:

Ugh. Do we have to?

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _:(_

[1:25AM]:

Alright, fine. I'll shut up and play your stupid game.

[1:26AM]:

You first.

[1:27AM]:

Truth or Dare?

 _[1:28AM]:_

 _..._

 _[1:29AM]:_

 _truth_

[1:34AM]:

Is your hair natural, or do you dye it?

[1:35AM]:

I mean, I'm 99% sure you dye it, but I gotta hear it from you.

 _[1:37AM]:_

 _natural_

 _[1:38AM]:_

 _my turn :-)_

 _[1:39AM]:_

 _truth or dare?_

[1:40AM]:

Truth.

 _[1:42AM]:_

 _favorite color?_

[1:43AM]:

Purple. My go: Truth or Dare?

 _[1:45AM]:_

 _dare_

[1:47AM]:

Hmm

[1:47AM]:

I dare you to

[1:48AM]:

.. **..**

[1:49AM]:

Wear your underpants over your trousers and run around the house yelling "Quicksilver to the rescue!"

 _[1:51AM]:_

 _i'm not doing that_

[1:51AM]:

Oh, yes you are, bud. In the morning, once Wanda's awake.

[1:53AM]:

You're the one that wanted to do this, remember?

 _[1:54AM]:_

 _ok fine shut up._

 _[1:54AM]:_

 _truth or dare?_

[1:56AM]:

Truth, obviously.

[1:58AM]:

God knows what you'd dare me to do.

 _[2:01AM]:_

 _what are you most afraid of?_

[2:03AM]:

Dying alone, of course.

[2:04AM]:

Wait, scratch that. I'm afraid of your hair. Of how "natural" it is.

 _[2:05AM]:_

 _bite me_

 _[2:07AM]:_

 _i pick truth_

[2:09AM]:

If you could have any superpower, what would it be and why?

 _[2:12AM]:_

 _invisibility_

[2:13AM]:

And why?

 _[2:15AM]:_

 _so i could spy on you obviously_

[2:18AM]:

Obviously, haha.

 _[2:19AM]:_

 _no i think i'd like it because i could run as fast as i wanted_

 _[2:21AM]:_

 _and no one would see me_

[2:23AM]:

Then you could knock people over, and they'd think it was just a really strong breeze.

 _[2:25AM]:_

 _you understand me very well_

[2:27AM]:

My turn.

 _[2:29AM]:_

 _please don't pick truth again_

 _[2:30AM]:_

 _it is not as much fun if you just pick the same_

[2:36AM]:

Fine.

[2:38AM]:

I know I'm going to regret this, but here it goes.

[2:38AM]:

Just because you asked so nicely: dare.

[2:40AM]:

Lemme guess: you're going to dare me to do something dumb, like eat a pepper or drink out of Lucky's bowl.

 _[2:44AM]:_

 _mmm interesting_

[2:45AM]:

Disgusting. Don't dare me to do that. Please?

 _[2:48AM]:_

 _pretty please?_

[2:51AM]:

Pretty please?

 _[2:55AM]:_

 _i dare you to not fall in love with me_

 _[2:55AM]:_

 _it will be difficult for you_

 _[2:56AM]:_

 _but please try. try to resist my charms i dare you_

[3:02AM]:

Hah. That's too easy.

[3:02AM]:

Sure, kid. I'll try my hardest.

 _[3:05AM]:_

 _many have tried and failed_

[3:07AM]:

I accept your dare. Now it's your turn.

[3:08AM]:

Truth or dare?

 _[3:11AM]:_

 _dare_

[3:14AM]:

I dare you to send me a pic

 _[3:15AM]:_

 _of me? is that all?_

[3:17AM]:

Send a pic next time you're in the park. Maybe I'll photobomb you and appear somewhere behind you..

 _[3:19AM]:_

 _tomorrow then_

 _[3:21AM]:_

 _i look forward to it_

[3:23AM]:

Your go

[3:25AM]:

Last go, too. This old man is gettin sleepy.

 _[3:26AM]:_

 _truth or dare?_

 _[3:28AM]:_

 _let me guess... truth. again._

[3:29AM]:

Alright, fine. Dare.

 _[3:31AM]:_

 _since we are taking pictures_

[3:33AM]:

Oh crap

 _[3:34AM]:_

 _i dare you to send me one_

 _[3:36AM]:_

 _i will send the details tmrw_

[3:38AM]:

The details? What is this, a secret mission for super secret special agents?

 _[3:40AM]:_

 _gnite agent barton_

[3:42AM]:

Night, sweet talker

 _[3:44AM]:_

 _xx_

* * *

me thinks clint doth protest too much (he totally was scared, let's be real)

super secret special agent boyfriends


	8. Chapter 8

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

A/N: I don't usually put anything up here, but I just wanted to suggest that you read this chapter on ao3 as there are actual pictures in this chapter, and for some reason I'm not able to put them into a doc on here. So, head over to ao3 to read this chapter and you'll see the pictures that Pietro sent Clint. Happy reading!

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

Clint's fresh out of the shower when he hears his phone go off. He pads down the hall and back into his bedroom, barefoot, nothing on but jeans and a towel draped over his bare shoulders. He grabs the phone off of the bedside draw and slides it open. There's a little ghost in the corner of the screen. He opens up the chat. One message from Pietro, and three unopened pictures.

 ** _quicksilver007:_**

 _wake up old man. i have things to show you_

 **luckybarton:**

Kind of scared to press that red button. Here goes nothin.

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _the picture you asked of me is in there_

 _Oh._ Clint swallows and wets his lips, ignoring that strange feeling in his chest (it's in his hands, too. All throughout his body, really. Something like nerves, maybe even butterflies). He holds the button down. Holds his breath too, but that's neither here nor there. Clint's lips curve up into a smile as each image passes by.

The images are gone far too quickly, Clint decides. He can't seem to get rid of the smile on his face. A text comes through from Pietro a minute or so later. Clint closes the app and opens up his messages, typing back a reply before he can stop himself - or pace himself. When it comes to Pietro, he doesn't seem to know how to go slow

Everything sort of just happens, and Clint's left wondering where the rest of his self-control went.

 _[10:03AM]:_

 _did you enjoy the pictures old man_

[10:06AM]:

Very much.

[10:08AM]:

You're looking good today, Pietro.

 _[10:10AM]:_

 _that joke is getting old_

 _[10:14AM]:_

 _like you_

[10:16AM]:

It's kinda sad that it took you 4 minutes to think of that.

[10:17AM]:

You can do way better.

[10:19AM]:

Anyway, I'm serious. You look good - for a cat. And a cheater.

 _[10:20AM]:_

 _"send a pic next time you're in the park"_

 _[10:21AM]:_

 _those were your words yes_

 _[10:24AM]:_

 _you never said i had to be in the picture :-)_

[10:27AM]:

Sneaky.

[10:28AM]:

I like it. And actually kind of respect it.

[10:30AM]:

Which is why I'll be doing the same thing with my picture.

[10:34AM]:

It'll either be a landscape shot, my ute, or Lucky.

 _[10:36AM]:_

 _very cute effort but no_

 _[10:38AM]:_

 _i said i would send the details, so here:_

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _selfie_

[10:43AM]:

I don't do that.

 _[10:46AM]:_

 _i kept my sides of the dare_

[10:48AM]:

I can't believe I forgot the best part of last night.

[10:50AM]:

So you actually did it? You ran around shouting "Quicksilver to the rescue!"

 _[10:53AM]:_

 _in my underwear over my trousers yes_

[10:57AM]:

Haha I would've paid to see that. How'd it go?

 _[11:04AM]:_

 _how do you think it went_

 _[11:06AM]:_

 _first thing in the morning_

 _[11:06AM]:_

 _it was very loud_

[11:08AM]:

That bad, ey?

[11:10AM]:

I'm willing to bet that she either punched you, or laughed at you so hard she cried.

[11:11AM]:

Maybe even both?

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _consider the mission completed_

[11:19AM]:

No way you get off that easy, bud. So? Did she laugh or cry?

 _[11:23AM]:_

 _there was laughing involved_

 _[11:23AM]:_

 _she also threw a cereal box at me_

[11:26AM]:

Atta girl.

[11:28AM]:

Gotta admit I'm surprised you went through with it.

 _[11:30AM]:_

 _i keep my word_

 _[11:31AM]:_

 _and i am sure you keep yours_

[11:34AM]:

Yeah, yeah. Shut up. You'll get your selfie.

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _:-) busy day today?_

[11:40AM]:

Shouldn't be. Got a few errands to run, but that's it.

[11:43AM]:

Gave myself the day off from work (the perks of being self-employed). Which means I'm all yours.

[11:45AM]:

Meaning you have my undivided attention. Obviously.

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _obviously ;-)_

[11:59AM]:

Gotta spend some quality time with Lucky too. He's feeling neglected.

 _[12:06PM]:_

 _that makes two of us_

[12:08PM]:

You'll live.

 _[12:14PM]:_

 _are you willing to take that risk_

 _[12:19PM]:_

 _what will you do tonight?_

[12:56PM]:

Look, something's come up. Gotta go into town. Talk after?

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

[1:03PM]:

Hi Laura. I'll be home if you want to come around today.

[1:04PM]:

Looking forward to it. x

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

 **[1:20PM}:**

 **spill it, Barton.**

[1:25PM]:

?

 **[1:28PM]:**

 **you were glued to your phone all weekend.**

 **[1:30PM]:**

 **even Stark noticed. that's saying something, Clint.**

[1:36PM]:

Yeah? Well here's what I'm saying: I have no idea what you're talking about.

 **[1:43PM]:**

 **really? you're playing dumb?**

 **[1:45PM]:**

 **I don't buy it.**

[1:47PM]:

Maybe I'm not playing. Ever consider that?

 **[1:50PM]:**

 **is it Laura?**

 **[1:56PM]:**

 **are the two of you, you know.**

[2:00PM]:

.. **..**

[2:03PM]:

No, we're not anything.

[2:05PM]:

There's no one like that in my life, Nat. I've got nothing to spill.

[2:05PM]:

Sorry to disappoint.

 **[2:08PM]:**

 **you just seemed different, that's all.**

 **[2:08PM]:**

 **I worry, Clint. I didn't mean to pry.**

[2:13PM]:

Yes, you did. You always mean to.

[2:16PM]:

It's because you care, I get it.

[2:19PM]:

Ok I'm curious. Different how?

 **[2:21PM]:**

 **happier?**

[2:24PM]:

Gotta go. Expecting company.

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

[4:17PM]:

Hey, Pietro.

[4:18PM]:

Sorry I wasn't around much today.

[4:20PM]:

Or at all, actually. That was kinda crappy of me.

[4:21PM]:

Let me make it up to you?

[4:25PM]:

We'll do whatever you want tonight. Stupid games, stupid movies, whatever.

[4:36PM]:

I mean it. Whatever you feel like doing. Let me know what you want.

[4:38PM]:

I'm always up for something stupid.

* * *

TUES 19 MAY

Clint spears his fork through a piece of ravioli and pops it into his mouth. He's mid-chew when his phone starts buzzing, and doesn't stop. He fumbles for it, pulling it out of his pocket clumsily. It takes Clint five or so seconds to realize that Pietro is calling him. He swallows the rest of his dinner down, and sets the bowl down on the table before standing, unable to do much else but stare at the incoming call notification.

Of all things to do, he starts pacing.

The phone keeps ringing, of course. Clint decides not to answer.

He can't seem to bring himself to. It's ridiculous, really. He's a grown man, not some lovesick teen. He isn't even in love. Hasn't been for a long, _long_ time. Clint moves to the kitchen and leans against one of the counters, jutting his hip out. He draws a deep breath, then answers the call, exhaling softly as he lifts the phone up to his ear.

"Um - yeah. Clint speaking." he says dumbly.

It's quiet on the other line for a moment. A beat passes. Clint considers hanging up. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sinks back against the counter a little more, closing his eyes. And then Pietro speaks, and Clint's entire body goes rigid. His eyes open slowly, as if he half-expects Pietro to be standing in front of him (he's quietly disappointed to find that Pietro isn't actually in his kitchen).

" _You told me to let you know what I want._ " Pietro says.

Clint tries to place the accent, but can't, just like he couldn't with Wanda. He clutches at the phone, holding it to his ear like he can't believe it's really happening. Pietro says nothing on the other end. It's like he's waiting for Clint - expecting something, wanting anything that Clint can give.

"And you - uh, you figured it out? What you want?" Clint asks, clearing his throat. He scratches at his jaw absentmindedly.

" _I want to know who Laura is."_

"How do you know Laura? I didn't mention her to you."

" _You sent a text to me that was addressed to her._ "

And he doesn't sound mad, not really. Not that he has any reason to be. He just sounds confused, maybe even a little hurt. Clint heaves a sigh. It makes sense now, why Laura never answered, never stopped by. Makes sense now, why Pietro went quiet on him, _again_.

"It's complicated. Really, it's a mess. I can't give you much more than that without really getting into it."

" _Not everything can be simple._ "

"I see that now."

" _So?"_ Pietro presses. _"Is she a girlfriend?"_

"No, she's - look, we were together for a long time." Clint answers slowly. "But it's over. Has been for a long time, and I guess neither of us wanted to admit it. She was meant to stop by today to pick up the rest of her stuff, but I guess you got that message instead." a pause. Pietro stays quiet. "Like I said, it's a mess. Laura will always be a huge part of my life."

On the other end of the line, Pietro sighs. It sounds like he's moving. What he says next comes out all crackly and unclear.

"Yeah, I think I lost you for a minute there. Didn't catch what you said. It came out all garbled."

 _"Garbled? Really?"_ Pietro asks, sounding rather unimpressed. _"So now you are making up words too?"_

"Garbled is a word."

" _I said I was sorry. That is what you didn't catch._ " Pietro says. " _I am sorry if it was not my business. I only asked because it bothered me that you said you were doing one thing, but did another. It - yes, that really bothered me. Even if it should not bother me, it did...it does_."

Clint swallows over the lump in his throat.

"Don't say sorry for that. I mean, you could apologize for being a pain in my ass, or for the gratuitous amount of question marks you use," Clint says. "But don't say sorry for that. I should've just said what I was doing...I guess it's just not something I talk about. Doesn't really feel like a fun conversation topic. Didn't think it'd be something you'd wanna hear."

" _You thought it would bore me?_ "

Clint nods, then realizes that Pietro can't actually see him. "Well, yeah. It's just - yeah. It's old people stuff."

" _You know_ ," Pietro muses. " _You really do not sound very old._ "

"Am I supposed to say thanks?"

" _It was a compliment._ "

"Better stop with these compliments, kid. You're a real charmer."

Pietro groans loudly on the other end, and Clint can just picture him rolling his eyes in annoyance. " _Kid? Seriously?"_

"Seriously."

" _You are pushing your luck, old man._ "

"Good to know." Clint says. "It's - this is weird. Isn't it? Actually hearing your voice is...it's different."

There's some sort of hesitation on Pietro's part. _"Is your memory that bad?"_

"Scuse' me?"

 _"This is not our first time."_

"Our what?" Clint splutters. "Oh, right. There was _that_ drunken phone call. How could I forget?"

" _You forget, don't you?_ "

"If I'm being honest? Yeah. It's not really coming back to me."

" _Perhaps it is for the best that you have forgotten."_

"Yeah, I mean, it must've been really awkward when I confessed my love and all that. Probably best to just leave that behind." Clint pushes himself off of the counter, with no actual intent of going anywhere. Still, he drags out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sits down with a sigh, crossing his legs over at the ankles. "We could pretend it's the first time." he suggests, a beat later.

 _"We could,"_ Pietro considers. _"Or we could discuss this picture you still owe me."_

"Or," Clint says. "We could talk about how you thought I had a girlfriend and it bothered you. That's - yeah. That's interesting to me."

 _"It would not be so bad to pretend this is the first time."_

"Knew you'd see it my way. So. You sound different."

 _"Good different or bad different?"_

"Good, of course."

 _"What else?"_

"What do you mean, what else? I'm still getting used to your voice, kid. Lemme have this."

 _"You sound different as well."_

"I thought we'd done this before?" Clint asks. "You've heard me speak? Or was it just a load of garble?"

 _"You were a little more drunk last time. It was different."_

"Good different or bad different?"

 _"Just different."_

"Right. Well, this is new for me."

Pietro laughs and Clint wants to always remember _that_ sound. No matter what happens, he wants to remember the sound of Pietro's laugh. He couldn't explain what it sounded like, if you asked him. There was something honest about it - it was warm and genuine, but those were the only words Clint could think to put to it.

"Something funny?" Clint asks.

 _"Yes,"_ Pietro says. _"You have said many times already that this is new. I wonder if I am making you nervous. Am I making you nervous, Clint?"_

Clint scoffs, and sinks back further in the kitchen chair. "You? Please. You don't make me nervous. You're harmless, like a moth. Like a cat."

 _"Mmmm."_ he hums, sounding very much like he's smothering another laugh. _"Whatever you say, old man."_

"You busy tonight?" Clint asks.

There's rustling on the other end, for what feels like a good long minute, before Pietro's voice returns. _"I am never too busy for you."_

"You're full of shit."

 _"I know."_

"What do you wanna do tonight?"

 _"I could pick a better movie this time."_ Pietro says. _"Or at least tell you what not to pick. Your taste is poor sometimes."_

"Don't even get me started on your taste. Pretty damn terrible."

 _"You pick then."_

"Or we could just stay on the phone? Just talk?"

Clint drums his fingers against his thigh (out of nerves, or out of habit, he isn't sure).

 _"I will gladly listen to more of your garble."_

"It's settled then." Clint smiles. "First I wanna hear all about the dare. Details. Don't leave anything out."

* * *

why ravioli, you ask. here's why:

1\. so i could say this: ravioli ravioli, give me the formuoli  
2\. my sister hates it and she's reading this, hi sis!  
3\. and lastly, because it's just really good


	9. Chapter 9

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

* * *

WED 20 MAY

For a moment, he's worried that Pietro's fallen asleep on him. But the silence doesn't last (it's hardly ever quiet, not when Pietro's right in his ear, chattering away about this and that, and Clint can't help but listen). Pietro makes a noise that's something between a laugh and a yawn. It's all mangled and just downright ridiculous, and Clint really shouldn't find it cute. He shouldn't, but he does - oh, he really, _really_ does.

 _"You are not serious."_

"Aw, come on." Clint says. "What reason would I have to lie to you? Especially about something like this."

 _"There are plenty of reasons, actually. First, perhaps you are trying to impress me."_

Clint stifles a yawn, and rolls over onto his back. He's sprawled out on the mattress, with Lucky curled up near his feet. "Seriously? You think I'm trying to impress you by telling you I was in the circus? You think that story works on people? If I was trying to impress you, I'd-" the words catch in Clint's throat.

 _"You would, what?"_ Pietro asks.

"I - nothing. It was a slip of the tongue."

 _"I do not believe that you were in the circus,"_ he says, carrying on easily. _"Unless you were a clown. That I would believe."_

"I wasn't a clown."

 _"Probably too grumpy to be a clown anyway."_

"Yeah, that's exactly what they said when I applied. So. What was the second reason? Why would I lie about this?"

 _"Well, first you are trying to impress me. Or, second, you are lying to hide your true story."_ Pietro says, in between yawns. _"What trick did you perform? Did you train the lions? Were you the one who played with fire, or did you dance with bears?"_

"Mhm. That last one." Clint hums. "I danced with the bears. They gave me a tutu and everything. You know, you sound pretty tired. We can call it a night. Pick up where we leave off tomorrow. It's," he cranes his head back to look at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Yeah, it's getting late. You probably got shit to do tomorrow anyway."

 _"What have I said? I am never too busy for you, Barton."_

"You're seriously full of shit."

 _"So you've said."_ Pietro laughs.

"You're, you know. Young. You should be out doing stuff. Not talking to me." Clint says, then quickly adds: "Not that I mind. At all. I mean, I like talking to you. You should know that by now. It's just...you shouldn't miss out on things. I don't want you to miss out on things."

 _because of me_ , Clint thinks, _because I'll hold you back._

Pietro laughs again, but it doesn't sound quite the same. Beyond sounding tired, he sounds mildly pissed off. _"Who says I am missing out?"_ he challenges. _"I am missing out on nothing. I am happy. Should that not make you happy?"_

"It does. Come on, you know it does."

 _"So? Enough with this old man nonsense."_ Pietro says. _"You are not that old."_

"I sure feel it sometimes."

 _"I will hear no more about this."_

"Hah. You know, apart from Nat, I've honestly never had a friend as bossy as you. It's different. I mean, sure, Steve's kinda bossy but not in an obvious way. Steve just gives you this look and you immediately feel guilty, so yeah, of course you'll help him move all his shit over to Bucky's apartment even if it is all the way over in Brooklyn. Then there's Tony, and he's more of a pain in my ass than you've ever been. Don't even get me started on Tony. Sam's nice, yeah. He's a good - right up there with the rest of 'em. Up there with you."

 _"You sound happy,"_ Pietro says. _"When you talk about your friends."_

"You're one of 'em."

 _"And you are sure about that? You are not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"_

"I'm not doing that. Cross my heart, and all that."

 _"Will you work tomorrow?"_

"Yeah."

 _"Me too."_

"Better let you get some rest then," Clint sighs, sitting up a little in bed. Lucky remains peacefully asleep, down by the end of the bed. Clint reaches down to pat him softly, smoothing a hand over his fur. He hears movement on the other end of the line. A soft rustle, before Pietro's voice returns.

 _"We will speak tomorrow?"_

"Mhm. I'm sure we will. Can't live without you, obviously."

 _"Obviously."_ Pietro says. _"Sleep tight, Agent Barton."_

Clint laughs softly, and mutters under his breath, "Yeah, you too, you smart little bastard."

 _"What was that?"_

"Nothin, babe. Go to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

It doesn't really hit him until after hangs up. Clint brushes his teeth, washes his face, and climbs back into bed. He's losing. Lucky's sleeping next to him now, snoring away happily, and Clint's _still_ losing. Losing a stupid, ridiculous dare. He reaches for his phone and sends a text off to Nat, knowing that she won't be awake, but he still needs to send it anyway and get it out of his damn system.

Even if she can't help, at least she'll take him seriously. Maybe.

[03:51AM]:

its not urgent but i need your help nat.

[03:53AM]:

im losing

Clint tosses his phone somewhere down near the end of the bed, and sinks further into the pillows. "Pull yourself together, Barton. _"_

* * *

WED 20 MAY

 **[9:21AM]:**

 **again, Barton? is this why Laura left?**

 **[9:24AM]:**

 **look, just message me as soon as you're conscious**

 **[9:25AM]:**

 **we'll figure this out, together.**

[9:34AM]:

What?

[9:34AM]:

You know why Laura left.

 **[9:37AM]:**

 **actually I don't know.**

 **[9:40AM]:**

 **what happened, Clint?**

[9:42AM]:

We've had this talk a million times before, Nat.

[9:45AM]:

I changed. Laura changed. I wasn't there. And when I was around, I wasn't what she wanted.

[9:47AM]:

You know that already. All of it.

 **[9:51AM]:**

 **that's an amazingly vague answer.**

 **[9:52AM]:**

 **but I'm not talking about Laura. I'm talking about your debt.**

 **[9:54AM]:**

 **who do you owe, Clint? and how much?**

[9:57AM]:

.. **..**

[9:58AM]:

What?

[9:58AM]:

I'm not in debt. I paid it all back.

 **[10:05AM]:**

 **you said you were losing, Clint. how much did you bet, and on what?**

[10:08AM]:

I didn't bet a dime, Nat. I was talking about something else.

[10:13AM]:

I'm losing a dare.

[10:15AM]:

So I've only just realized how stupid that sounds.

 **[10:18AM]:**

 **a dare?**

 **[10:20AM]:**

 **you sent me a text at 4 in the morning asking for help**

 **[10:21AM]:**

 **and it turns out you're talking about a dare?**

[10:22AM]:

A stupid, stupid dare. Very stupid.

 **[10:23AM]:**

 **do you even realize how worried I was?**

 **[10:25AM]:**

 **next time, I'm just going to forward the message to Tony and let him give you advice.**

[10:30AM]:

Nat, c'mon. Don't threaten me with Tony.

[10:32AM]:

I'm sorry, alright? It was dumb. Just a stupid text.

[10:33AM]:

Please don't involve Stark.

 **[10:37AM]:**

 **if you ever do that to me again, Barton, I will kill you.**

 **[10:40AM]:**

 **or I'll involve Tony.**

[10:43AM]:

That's actually worse than death. Can we go back to the killing me thing?

[10:45AM]:

At least Death wouldn't hit on me.

[10:46AM]:

It'd be quick and easy.

 **[10:48AM]:**

 **quick and easy, like that little fling you and Tony had?**

[10:50AM]:

Yup. I was right. This is worse than death.

* * *

WED 20 MAY

 _[11:14AM]:_

 _you were in my dream_

[11:16AM]:

Oh boy.

[11:16AM]:

This should be interesting.

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _promise it is not as bad as it sounds_

 _[11:20AM]:_

 _arent you even a little curious_

[11:24AM]:

Ok. Lay it on me.

 _[11:27AM]:_

 _so you were in the circus_

[11:30AM]:

You know, it's funny, you said it wasn't a bad dream, yet I already hate where this is going.

 _[11:32AM]:_

 _stop talking you are ruining my story_

 _[11:34AM]:_

 _i am trying to set the mood_

 _[11:35AM]:_

 _you are in the circus and you have one of those tiny pink bikes_

[11:37AM]:

I was right. This is bad.

 _[11:40AM]:_

 _you do not ride the bike instead you train the elephant to ride it which is strange_

 _[11:40AM]:_

 _the elephant is so big and the bike is tiny_

[11:45AM]:

What happened next?

 _[11:48AM]:_

 _that was it_

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _it was actually a very good dream_

 _[11:52AM]:_

 _very entertaining_

[11:54AM]:

I was an acrobat. Not a lion tamer, or a clown.

[11:57AM]:

And I definitely didn't go anywhere near the elephants.

 _[12:05PM]:_

 _for the sake of the story i am going to pretend that you did_

 _[12:06PM]:_

 _i also picture you breathing fire_

[12:11PM]:

Nope. Didn't happen. Not a dragon.

[12:14PM]:

Have you even been to a circus? Like once, in your entire life?

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _no_

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _not yet_

[12:19PM]:

You gotta go. At least once.

 _[12:23PM]:_

 _do you miss it?_

[12:25PM]:

Sometimes, yeah. Miss it like crazy.

 _[12:27PM]:_

 _and the other times?_

[12:29PM]:

Not so much. There were good times. Some really good, some really bad.

 _[12:34PM]:_

 _what did your family think?_

[12:37PM]:

.. **..**

[12:41PM]:

Never had the chance to ask.

[12:45PM]:

So, what kinds of trouble have you gotten yourself into today?

 _[12:48PM]:_

 _all kinds of course_

[12:50PM]:

Of course.

[12:50PM]:

You sleep alright? I know we had a late one.

 _[12:52PM]:_

 _it wasn't so bad_

 _[12:52PM]:_

 _the last thing I remember before falling asleep was the sound of your voice_

[12:54PM]:

See? I can play nice. I had a good time.

 _[12:56PM]:_

 _you called me a smart little bastard_

[12:59PM]:

Ah. So you heard that.

 _[1:03PM]:_

 _i also heard you call me babe_

[1:06PM]:

Did I? I don't remember.

 _[1:08PM]:_

 _.._ _ **..**_

 _[1:13PM]:_

 _i am going to the store_

 _[1:15PM]:_

 _want anything?_

[1:17PM]:

Already ate, I'm good.

 _[1:20PM]:_

 _oh_

 _[1:21PM]:_

 _that was meant for wanda_

[1:25PM]:

That's how we got ourselves into this mess in the first place, remember?

[1:27PM]:

A text meant for Wanda.

 _[1:30PM]:_

 _i remember_

 _[1:34PM]:_

 _you were much grumpier back then...perhaps i have rubbed off on you_

[1:37PM]:

Go buy some damn pancakes, kid.

 _[1:40PM]:_

 _that's more like it_

[1:44PM]:

Go on. I'm not going anywhere.

* * *

WED 20 MAY

[5:13PM]:

Is it safe to talk to you yet?

 **[5:18PM]:**

 **depends on what you want to talk about.**

[5:20PM]:

How about that dare?

[5:21PM]:

Promise it's not as stupid as it sounds.

 **[5:24PM]:**

 **ok, but I'll be the one that decides whether it's stupid or not.**

 **[5:26PM]:**

 **start talking, Barton.**

[5:30PM]:

So I met someone. Kind of.

 **[5:32PM]:**

 **?**

[5:32PM]:

Seriously? You too? What's with the?

 **[5:34PM]:**

 **how do you 'kind of' meet someone?**

 **[5:35PM]:**

 **details. now.**

[5:38PM]:

We're not exactly seeing each other.

[5:40PM]:

I don't see him that often. We do talk a lot. Calls, messages, etc.

 **[5:43PM]:**

 **talking already? this early on? make sure you wear protection.**

[5:46PM]:

Remind me why I talk to you about this stuff.

 **[5:49PM]:**

 **because Tony's no help, and Steve's with his childhood sweetheart.**

 **[5:50PM]:**

 **which leaves just me, and Sam. want me to ask him?**

[5:53PM]:

Right. I forgot you were a thing. And no, I don't want you to ask him.

 **[5:56PM]:**

 **he wants to know where you met the mystery man?**

[5:59PM]:

In the park.

 **[6:01PM]:**

 **you picked up a complete stranger in the park**

[6:04PM]:

Forget I said anything.

[6:05PM]:

Also, that's a pretty judgy tone, considering you met Sam in a park.

 **[6:07PM]:**

 **that was different. Sam was running with Steve. I know Steve, and Steve knew Sam, therefore Sam wasn't a complete stranger.**

 **[6:08PM]:**

 **it's not the same thing. also, not judging.**

 **[6:10PM]:**

 **when do I meet him? ;)**

[6:13PM]:

After I do

 **[6:15PM]:**

 **?**

[6:17PM]:

After I get to know him more and decide whether it's worth it

 **[6:23PM]:**

 **because that's totally your style**

[6:25PM]:

I'm kinda offended. I can take things slowly.

 **[6:28PM]:**

 **you don't exactly have the best track record.**

[6:30PM]:

Are you forgetting Laura?

 **[6:32PM]:**

 **the longest relationship you've ever been in lasted just over two years.**

 **[6:34PM]:**

 **the rest are all too similar to that thing you had with Tony.**

[6:37PM]:

There was no "thing" ok?

[6:39PM]:

And I thought we promised we weren't going to talk about said "thing" like ever again. Remember?

 **[6:40PM]:**

 **actually, you promised. I just smiled and nodded along.**

* * *

WED 20 MAY

Clint fidgets with his sleeve, toying with the frayed edges restlessly.

He'd bounce his knee up and down, if Lucky weren't splayed across his lap. Clint combs his free hand through Lucky's fur, scratching behind his ear, before smoothing down his back. It's late and Clint's bored, and Pietro still isn't answering. Clint can't stop checking his phone, which really, _really_ isn't like him. About 10 or so minutes ago, he text Pietro asking if he was finally ready for the picture Clint "owed" him.

And in reply, Clint got nothing. No answer. No wink face or innuedo. _Nothing_.

He took the photo _before_ Lucky crawled into his lap and dozed off. He hasn't been able to set it yet though - it's still on Snapchat, waiting to be customized, sent, and agonized over. His phone gives a soft _bzz_ from where it's resting on the armrest, then another. Clint scoops it up a second later.

 _[11:27PM]:_

 _i ran into a friend n we went for drinks_

 _[11:29PM]:_

 _would be home sooner if i knew u were sending it_

[11:32PM]:

I'm having second thoughts.

 _[11:35PM]:_

 _cold feet already? and here i thought we had a good thing_

 _[11:37PM]:_

 _and yes i always enjoy drinks_

 _[11:40PM]:_

 _what awre u waiting for? send away agent_

[11:45PM]:

Alright, fine. I'll send it.

[11:47PM]:

I'm also preparing myself for the onslaught of old man jokes.

[11:48PM]:

I know they're coming, it's just a matter of when.

 _[11:52PM]:_

 _promise not to laugh_

[11:54PM]:

Who said anything about laughing?

Clint closes his messages and opens up Snapchat. Thankfully, the picture is still there. The timer's set to 10 seconds (a little too long for Clint's liking), there's a black and white filter on the picture because, well, he liked it better that way, and there's a simple message written across the image: _happy?_

Because if anyone is going to be happy about this, it's going to be Pietro.

He stares at the picture for a moment. Feels his phone vibrate, but doesn't check the text.

And it's not that Clint's not comfortable with himself, because he truly is. It's not that he's out of shape (not by any means) it's just he's not a 20-something year old anymore. He's not. Pushing that thought away to the farthest corner of his mind, Clint clicks the arrow that takes him to the next page where he ticks the box next to _quicksilver007_ and hits send before he can stop himself.

He stares at the Snapchat home page for what feels like a very long time, when in reality it's just a matter of minutes. The little red arrow next to _quicksilver007_ suddenly changes, and keeps on changing - Clint's barely able to keep up with it. Doesn't understand half of it, if he's being honest.

And then it goes blue, and luckily, Clint knows what that means. Kind of. Clint swipes the message open.

* * *

 **A/N:** I haven't asked yet, but would any of you be interested in seeing Clint and Pietro meet? I've been thinking about it ever since I started writing this fic actually, and I've got a few solid ideas about what I could do, I guess I'm just wondering if that's something you'd be interested in reading.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat** | **_Stark_**

* * *

THURS 21 MAY

Clint stares at the emoji. Types up several responses, only to delete each and every one. He stares at the emoji some more, as if doing so will somehow help him pull the right words out of his head and onto the chat screen. Clint doesn't know if Pietro's typing or not (he can tell when someone's texting, because the little .. **..** appears in the corner of his screen) but he's really out of his depth here, and that's more than just a little embarassing.

 **luckybarton:**

Am I supposed to know what that means?

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _isnt it obvious_

 **luckybarton:**

No? Meow?

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _? what_

 **luckybarton:**

Um nevermind.

 ** _quicksilver007:_**

 _who knew_

 **luckybarton:**

Knew what?

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _different to what i expectd_

 _expcted_

 _ugh_

 _your ego is big already_

 _do you need me 2 make it bigger_

 **luckybarton:**

Think you got us confused. You're the pretty one.

You're also the one with the big ego.

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _am i_

 _i thought maybe i was_

 _until now tho you are vrey nice looking_

 _which is not what i meant_

 **luckybarton:**

Yeah, I know. I'm ready for the old man jokes now. It's time.

Lay 'em on me.

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _i am_

 **luckybarton:**

What?

 ** _quicksilver007:_**

 _you asked if iwas happy_

 _i am_

 **luckybarton:**

You're also pretty drunk. Sometimes that's the same thing.

 _ **quicksilver007:**_

 _i think its becase of you_

 **luckybarton:**

At least we figured out what type of drunk you are.

Clint closes the app, and gently moves Lucky's head off his lap so he can make an escape - he doesn't get very far. All he wants is a big cup of coffee, really, even if it's getting a little too late for that. He's resting against the counter, waiting for the delicious cup of life to be ready, when his phone vibrates. Once, twice. It keeps going. He fumbles for it without moving all that much, retrieving it from his back pocket easily.

 **(4) New Messages**

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of him feels a little concerned, especially when he sees Nat's name at the top.

 **[12:18AM]:**

 **so there was a minor incident.**

 **[12:18AM]:**

 **nothing serious, or stupid - like a certain dare we won't mention.**

 **[12:19AM]:**

 **back to the incident.**

 **[12:19AM]:**

 **hypothetically, how bad would it be if Stark somehow found out about your mystery man?**

[12:26AM]:

Please tell me you're joking.

[12:28AM]:

Nat?

[12:29AM]:

You're just getting back at me for that whole debt/dare misunderstanding, right?

[12:33AM]:

Natasha, I'd really appreciate an answer.

 **[12:37AM]:**

 **it's only hypothetical, Clint. but really, how bad could it be?**

[12:41AM]:

On a scale of 0-10, I'd give it about 105. Yeah,

[12:41AM]:

Maybe more, because it's Tony, and no number is high enough.

 **[12:45AM]:**

 **hypothetically**

[12:46AM]:

I don't like this.

 **[12:47AM]:**

 **it was an honest mistake.**

 **[12:49AM]:**

 **it was also Sam's fault, technically. he was trying to reply to you off my phone and he isn't used to it, since he uses a Samsung (ick) so he got confused, and sent the message to Stark. your message. by accident. I wasn't trying to get back at you, trust me, this isn't my style. Sam's just not used to my phone.**

[12:52AM]:

Gee, Nat. As much as I'd love to hear about Sam's history with mobile phones, I'd really like to hear the rest of this story first.

 **[12:54AM]:**

 **he forwarded the message to Tony.**

 **[12:55AM]:**

 **twice.**

 **[12:55AM]:**

 **I'll contain the situation.**

Clint's in the middle of typing up a very lengthy, very angry response (addressed to Sam, of course, because even though this is also Nat's fault for letting him anywhere near her phone, he's still quietly scared of her) when a text comes through from Tony Stark. Clint watches the name pop up at the top of his screen and disappear. Then it hits him. _Shit_. He almost puts his head through the counter.

He begrudgingly opens the message, a sense of dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.

 ** _[12:58AM]:_**

 ** _A little bird told me we've got a real Hunger Games love triangle over here._**

 ** _[12:58AM]:_**

 ** _You're obviously Katniss. Pretty, broody, et cetera. You also like to play pretend with that bow and arrow of yours, if I'm remembering correctly. Gosh, you're such a Katniss. Oh and next we have Gale - Laura, obviously. Tall, lean and gorgeous. Wait, you know who else fits that description? Me! So the part could really go to either of us, it's up to you. And lastly we have the wide-eyed baker boy. Who's sweet little Peeta and when do I meet_** **him?**

[1:03AM]:

Go fuck yourself, Stark.

 _ **[1:04AM]:**_

 _ **Aww but that's nowhere near as much fun.**_

Clint considers doing three different things: first, he thinks about killing Tony. Then, he has a long hard think about what might happen if he killed Sam, and whether or not Nat would be super pissed and kill Clint in retaliation. And lastly, he seriously considers shoving his phone in the blender and flipping the _on_ switch. He's about 0.5 seconds away from putting his phone in the blender when it buzzes, _again_.

He's going to kill Stark. It's decided. Except it isn't Tony, it's Pietro. Clint breathes a sigh of relief.

 _[1:08AM]:_

 _you never said._

[1:10AM]:

Never said what?

 _[1:11AM]:_

 _the type of drunk i am_

[1:14AM]:

The happy kind, remember?

 _[1:16AM]:_

 _oh_

[1:18AM]:

There are worse types of drunk to be, trust me.

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _what type are you_

[1:26AM]:

Guess it depends what mood I'm in.

 _[1:29AM]:_

 _interesting_

 _[1:29AM]:_

 _.._ _ **..**_

 _[1:32AM]:_

 _what mood are you in now_

[1:34AM]:

I'm curious.

 _[1:35AM]:_

 _abt?_

[1:38AM]:

About you.

[1:40AM]:

We can talk later. You should get some rest.

 _[1:45AM]:_

 _nite babe_

* * *

THURS 21 MAY

[10:03AM]:

Morning, Sunshine.

[10:04AM]:

Wanda just sent me the most beautiful picture of you, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms.

[10:04AM]:

Nice robe. It's very fluffy and pink.

 _[10:18AM]:_

 _you are enjoying this_

[10:21AM]:

Oh, yeah. Big time.

[10:22AM]:

How's your head?

 _[10:24AM]:_

 _not so good_

 _[10:26AM]:_

 _it is like a marching band on my brain_

[10:28AM]:

Damn. I'm not enjoying this so much.

[10:28AM]:

Greasy breakfast, coffee and aspirin. It'll do the trick.

[10:30AM]:

Exercise also works.

 _[10:36AM]:_

 _gross_

 _[10:37AM]:_

 _my sister is still sending pictures yes?_

[10:39AM]:

Mhm. We exchanged numbers. That's right, we're friends now.

[10:46AM]:

And that's a lovely shot of you flipping me off.

[10:46PM]:

Thanks, Wanda.

 _[10:48AM]:_

 _:-)_

[10:51AM]:

Take some aspirin, go for a run, you'll feel better.

 _[10:52AM]:_

 _yes sir_

 _[10:52AM]:_

 _but also no to exercise i think i will nap instead_

[10:55AM]:

A lazy day in bed sounds pretty good, especially after the night I had.

 _[10:57AM]:_

 _was it really so bad?_

[10:59AM]:

Didn't sleep well. My neck's all stiff and I'm pretty sure I had too much coffee. It kept me up.

 _[11:03AM]:_

 _i would stay up with you if you asked_

[11:06AM]:

That's exactly why I didn't. You needed your rest, and I'm used to being awake late at night.

 _[11:09AM]:_

 _all alone?_

[11:11AM]:

Not always.

 _[11:12AM]:_

 _so the old man is a bachelor ;-)_

[11:13AM]:

Hah, sure. Lucky sleeps in some nights.

[11:14AM]:

Most nights, actually. So if that's what you mean by "bachelor", then sure.

 _[11:15AM]:_

 _well my bed is very comfy_

 _[11:15AM]:_

 _you are welcome to join me_

[11:17AM]:

I'm on my way over right now.

[11:19AM]:

Oh and I've only got one rule: no cats allowed in the bed.

 _[11:23AM]:_

 _my bed means my terms_

 _[11:23AM]:_

 _she stays_

 _[11:24AM]:_

 _why does she have to go but yours can stay_

[11:25AM]:

Lucky's cuddly.

 _[11:28AM]:_

 _so is my girl_

[11:30AM]:

You're not a kicker, are you? Nat kicks.

[11:31AM]:

She swears she doesn't, but she does. Sometimes she elbows, which is worse. Gets me right in the ribs.

 _[11:32AM]:_

 _no? not that i am aware of_

 _[11:32AM]:_

 _do you need a glass for your teeth?_

[11:34AM]:

And there it is. I've been waiting on that since last night.

[11:34AM]:

My teeth are very much real. So no, I don't need a glass.

[11:36AM]:

Need me to bring a spare pair of sheets?

[11:36AM]:

In case you wet the bed, you know. Just being thoughtful.

 _[11:37AM]:_

 _hurry up before i change my mind_

[11:40AM]:

Maybe I changed mine.

 _[11:42AM]:_

 _look what i still have_

 _[11:44AM]:_

 _[image: the selfie that Clint sent to Pietro on Snapchat]_

[11:49AM]:

How do you still have that?

[11:50AM]:

Why do you still have that?

 _[11:56AM]:_

 _i took a picture of it_

 _[11:57AM]:_

 _so yes i am happy :-)_

[12:03PM]:

I don't even know what to say.

[12:04PM]:

Why would you want to keep that?

 _[12:07PM]:_

 _why do you think?_

[12:09PM]:

That's not an answer. Not a real one.

 _[12:10PM]:_

 _move your ass barton_

 _[12:11PM]:_

 _my bed is getting cold brrrrrr_

[12:17PM]:

Might have to take a raincheck on the nap.

[12:17PM]:

Seeing as I actually don't know where you live. I've also never met you.

 _[12:20PM]:_

 _there you go again spoiling my fun_

[12:25PM]:

It's what I do. :-)

 _[12:28PM]:_

 _we will talk later old man_

[12:30PM]:

You're having naps in the middle of the day, and I'm the old man? Makes sense.

 _[12:32PM]:_

 _zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzz_

[12:33PM]:

That's real cute. Go to sleep!

* * *

THURS 21 MAY

 _[5:21PM]:_

 _i have a craving for croissants_

 _[5:23PM]:_

 _the chocolate kind_

[5:28PM]:

Sleeping Beauty's finally awake. Feeling any better?

 _[5:30PM]:_

 _i want a croissant_

[5:34PM]:

.. **..**

[5:35PM]:

Cool?

[5:35PM]:

You've got legs, right? So use them. Go get a croissant.

 _[5:38PM]:_

 _is somebody grumpy because he did not have his nap like i suggested_

[5:40PM]:

No, I slept. It just wasn't great.

[5:40PM]:

Still feeling like shit?

 _[5:43PM]:_

 _is your neck still sore?_

[5:46PM]:

Yeah, but it's nothing.

 _[5:50PM]:_

 _you should have joined me_

 _[5:51PM]:_

 _it would have been interesting_

[5:56PM]:

Maybe next time.

 _[5:58PM]:_

 _i dreamt of the croissant_

 _[5:59PM]:_

 _delicious golden choclatey goodness mmmmmm_

[5:59PM]:

You and this croissant need to get a room.

 _[6:03PM]:_

 _what do you dream of?_

[6:04PM]:

You mean when I'm not dreaming of French delicacies?

[6:05PM]:

I don't know. That's a tough question to answer. Lots of things, really.

 _[6:08PM]:_

 _like what_

[6:09PM]:

You just don't quit, do you?

 _[6:13PM]:_

 _no :-)_

[6:15PM]:

Alright, fine.

[6:18PM]:

I dream of you, obviously. Of all the beautiful babies we'd have together. The family we'd make.

 _[6:20PM]:_

 _why are you are always making jokes_

 _[6:21PM]:_

 _i am serious about this._

[6:24PM]:

Wow, you really must be serious. You never use fullstops. Like ever.

 _[6:30PM]:_

 _i want to know you_

 _[6:30PM]:_

 _is that so bad?_

 _[6:31PM]:_

 _you are so closed up_

 _[6:33PM]:_

 _you say that we are friends, yes? but you dont let me close_

[6:38PM]:

Why would I do that?

 _[6:40PM]:_

 _what_

 _[6:40PM]:_

 _i do not understand?_

[6:43PM]:

We're friends, but that doesn't mean you get to know everything.

 _[6:44PM]:_

 _but i do not want to know everything_

[6:48PM]:

Right.

 _[6:51PM]:_

 _i wanted to know one thing_

 _[6:53PM]:_

 _what do you dream about? that is all i ask to know_

 _[6:53PM]:_

 _clint?_

 _[6:55PM]:_

 _i just want to know you_

[6:57PM]:

Why?

 _[6:57PM]:_

 _why what_

 _[6:58PM]:_

 _why do i want to know you?_

[7:04PM]:

Yeah. Why?

 _[7:05PM]:_

 _because i like you_

 _[7:05PM]:_

 _and i like talking to you_

 _[7:07PM]:_

 _you are different_

[7:13PM]:

Different isn't always a good thing.

 _[7:16PM]:_

 _but you are a good thing_

 _[7:19PM]:_

 _you are good for me_

 _[7:23PM]:_

 _do you want me to leave you alone?_

[7:26PM]:

Yeah.

[7:26PM]:

I don't know. Maybe.

 _[7:28PM]:_

 _let me know when you figure out what you want_

* * *

SUN 24 MAY

The next three days are something of a blur.

Clint gets up and goes to work, running on very little sleep and a _lot_ of caffeine. Turns out Clint doesn't sleep so well when he's not talking to Pietro. Everything else is routine - work, home, pizza, rest. He falls asleep on the couch more times than he can remember. Talks to Nat twice, and that's nice enough, except the part where she won't stop asking Clint questions about his "Running Man".

He considers texting Pietro. Thinks about him more than he'll admit, but he can't bring himself to hit send.

There's something stopping him - maybe it's shame, or pride, or something else equally as ridiculous. Clint doesn't text him. Doesn't receive a single message from him either, not that he's really checking (he checks his phone more now than he did before). He wonders if he's scared Pietro off for good this time.

It's late when he types up yet another message that he won't send. Clint rubs at his eyes and tries to think of the right thing to say; still, all that he comes up with is ' _sorry I was a dick_ ' and that doesn't really say everything that Clint wants to say. It's a start, sure, but the rest of it won't come together. He deletes the message and stuffs his phone under the pillow.

Thirty seconds later, Clint's resolve crumbles and he pulls the phone out from under his pillow. He sits up in bed, propping himself up so his back is pressed flat against the wooden headboard. Down by his feet, Lucky whines and lifts his head curiously.

"Dont look at me like that." Clint groans. "Come on. Not you too."

Lucky drops his head back down, but his beady eye is still on Clint, following each movement. Clint toys with the phone and taps it against his thigh, and before he knows it he's dialling Pietro's number and lifting the phone up to his ear. Part of him blames Lucky, the other part knows that it isn't Lucky's fault for having such a big beady eye, and it's actually 100% Clint's fault because he's the one that screwed things up with Pietro, _again_.

The phone rings for what feels like an eternity, and Clint considers hanging up twice, but there's a sudden click on the other end of the line and he knows that Pietro picked up. He's _there._ Clint breathes a sigh of relief. Knowing that he's still there (still real, and not a figment of Clint's imagination) comforts Clint for reasons that he usually doesn't dwell on.

"Dick move, huh?" Clint manages a weak laugh.

Pietro doesn't answer yet. Clint doesn't blame him.

"So, what I meant to say was sorry. I'm sorry I was a dick. Didn't mean for it to go down like that." he says, voice oddly strained. "You just wanted to get to know me. The thing is, I know how I am. Closed up, like you said. I can't change that. Wouldn't know how to. You're a good friend to me. Sure, you're a little shit sometimes, but you're good. Good to me. Maybe you're more than that - more than a friend. Something good. I wouldn't even know what to do with something -"

 _"Pietro isn't here right now,"_ a voice interrupts.

Clint doesn't recognize it - whoever it is, it definitely isn't Wanda (it's too deep, too husky to be her) and it's not Pietro either, since there's no accent, and no sharp, witty reply. There's a moment of panic, where Clint worries that something's happened to Pietro. He swallows over the lump lodged in his throat and speaks.

"Why do you have Pietro's phone?"

 _"Sorry, man. You just started talking and talking. I couldn't get a word in,"_ the man says. _"Felt too awkward to interrupt, so I figured I'd wait, but then you kept going and I-"_

"You didn't answer my question about why you have his phone."

 _"He's in the shower."_

"Oh. Who are you?"

 _"I'm Jacob. I'll let him know you called."_

"That's not - no. Don't." Clint stammers, kicking the sheets back off his legs. He stands up slowly, running a hand through his hair.

 _"You sure? I'll tell him you left a message. I'd write down what you said, but I-"_

"Don't. He doesn't need to know that. What I said."

Clint hangs up before he can hear Jacob's reply. He stares down at the phone in his hand numbly, unable to move, for a moment. There's something like jealously clawing at his chest. He drops down onto the side of the bed and puts his head in his hands, letting the phone clatter to the floor.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

* * *

MON 25 MAY

[9:04AM]:

I left it too late.

[9:04AM]:

Screwed up, like I always do.

[9:07AM]:

At this point I don't even know what's wrong with me.

* * *

MON 25 MAY

 _[11:25AM]:_

 _did you figure it out? is that why you called me?  
_

 _[11:30AM]:_

 _i want to know why_

 _[11:30AM]:_

 _or is that also too much to ask for?_

 _[11:35AM]:_

 _sometimes you do not make it very easy for me to know you_

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _all i wanted was to know one dream_

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _even if it was strange and did not make much sense  
_

 _[11:40AM]:_

 _i will tell you one of mine_

 _[11:46AM]:_

 _when i was a child we went to a lake and swam in it. i think of it almost every day. wanda was always better swimmer than me but she had trouble and could not make it back. i dream of it more than anything else because she almost drowned. i was not watching when she went under and then she was gone so i dive in and find her and she was not breathing_

 _[11:49AM]:_

 _a man rushed over to help her and suddenly she was alive and coughing up water_

 _[11:49AM]:_

 _sometimes i dream that i am too slow and do not make it_

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _it is not a very nice dream but not all dreams can be nice_

 _[11:51]AM:_

 _i think that is why you will not share yours with me? because they are not very nice_

 _[11:55AM]:_

 _i will wait until you are ready_

* * *

MON 25 MAY

 **[1:07PM]:**

 **so you screwed things up with your Running Man?**

[1:14PM]:

Oh yeah.

[1:15PM]:

He keeps texting, but I don't know what to say. Maybe I'll try "oh sorry I called you when I was still a little drunk last night and accidentally chewed your boyfriend's ear off before I realized that it _wasn't_ you on the other end of the line. My bad. At least I didn't say anything too embarrassing. Bye."

 **[1:18PM]:**

 **you left out a lot, Clint.**

 **[1:19PM]:**

 **spill it.**

[1:23PM]:

You know me, Nat. It's the same old story.

 **[1:23PM]:**

 **so you pulled a Barton?**

[1:25PM]:

Pulled a Barton?

 **[1:30PM]:**

 **happens to the best of us, including myself.**

 **[1:31PM]:**

 **you let him close and panicked because it was "too close" so you gave him a way out.**

 **[1:34PM]:**

 **will you at least tell him?**

[1:48PM]:

Telling him won't change anything.

[1:50PM]:

He's too young and I've got too much baggage. Wouldn't be fair.

 **[1:51PM]:**

 **shouldn't you let Running Man decide that?**

 **[1:54PM]:**

 **he should at least know.**

[2:01PM]:

Why? What will knowing do? Besides, I don't even know what this is.

[2:02PM]:

He doesn't know and I don't know, so I guess we'll be perfectly happy not knowing. It's better this way. It can go back to how it was before. No complications, no guilt, nothing. No weirdness. He doesn't need to know. It'll be better this way, we can still be friends, and it won't get messy.

 **[2:03PM]:**

 **hate to break it to you, Clint, but it's already a mess. you can't undo it.**

[2:05PM]:

I'm saving myself further embarassment.

 **[2:07PM]:**

 **keep telling yourself that's why you're backing down.**

[2:08PM]:

It's one reason.

 **[2:10PM]:**

 **starting today, I'm billing you for these therapy sessions. $30 an hour seem fair?  
**

[2:13PM]:

Your advice isn't that great. Not worth $30 anyway.

 **[2:14PM]:**

 **you're a big boy, Clint. you can figure this out for yourself.  
**

 **[2:16PM]:**

 **take a chance on your Running Man, or don't. it has to be your decision.**

[2:19PM]:

I appreciate the advice, but I've already made up my mind.

 **[2:21PM]:**

 **that'll be $30**

 **[2:22PM]:**

 **no cheques. cash only.  
**

* * *

MON 25 MAY

 _[2:38PM]:_

 _there is another dream_

 _[2:38PM]:_

 _one i think you should know about_

 _[2:44PM]:_

 _there is a rabbit_

 _[2:45PM]:_

 _and he has a watch it keeps making a noise_

 _[2:45PM]:_

 _there are white roses and strange looking hats  
_

 _[2:50PM]:_

 _so i follow this rabbit through the garden and there are many flowers but then i fell down a hole and could not get up again. there were magical drinks and i become very tiny so much smaller than i am. i dream of this often. there are talking dogs and cats it is very scary and strange  
_

 _[2:55PM]:_

 _perhaps you will share with me now since i have shared with you?_

[3:04PM]:

Unbelievable.

[3:06PM]:

You basically stole the plot of Alice in Wonderland. That was terrible.

[3:07PM]:

Like a really bad summary.

 _[3:09PM]:_

 _it could not be so bad if it got you talking to me, yes?_

 _[3:10PM]:_

 _will you be honest with me now_

 _[3:10PM]:_

 _let me know if i am asking too much of you  
_

[3:15PM]:

I'll be honest. What do you wanna know?

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _depends on what you will share_

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _i sometimes forget that we are only friends and i overstep boundaries as you reminded me  
_

[3:20PM]:

Pietro, I'm sorry. I am.

[3:21PM]:

It was a big misunderstanding, ok? I didn't mean to say half the shit I said. All of it, actually. It's all on me. I screwed up, so I'd understand if you wanted nothing more to do with me. I was drunk and didn't mean to call you. That doesn't excuse what I said before that. I was a dick. Dick move.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _it was a dick move_

 _[3:27PM]:_

 _you said i have to let you know if you cross a line, yes? maybe you must do the same with me from now on so tell me what i am allowed to ask and what i am not allowed to ask this way you will no longer be upset by my questions  
_

[3:30PM]:

Come on. I don't want it to be like that.

[3:31PM]:

I said I was sorry.

 _[3:34PM]:_

 _you do not want it to be like this? then how do you want it to be_

[3:36PM]:

How it was before. We had something good going.

[3:39PM]:

I don't mean to be the way I am, but I don't know how to be different.

 _[3:50PM]:_

 _did you figure out what you want? is that why you called  
_

[3:51PM]:

I felt like a dick after the way we left things. Wanted to explain myself, but I got your boyfriend instead. Don't worry, it won't happen again.

 _[3:53PM]:_

 _what makes you think he is a boyfriend?_

 _[3:53PM]:_

 _and you can explain yourself now i am not going anywhere  
_

[3:55PM]:

I have commitment issues? That's what Nat says, anyway.

 _[3:57PM]:_

 _but what do you say?_

[4:00PM]:

I'm a dick? A waste of time?

 _[4:03PM]:_

 _?_

 _[4:04PM]:_

 _are you asking me or telliing me_

[4:05PM]:

Telling you, I think. Maybe both?

 _[4:07PM]:_

 _a dick? yes_

 _[4:07PM]:_

 _but not a waste of time_

[4:14PM]:

I just want things to be how they were before all this.

 _[4:15PM]:_

 _lately i do not know what you want_

[4:16PM]:

That makes two of us.

 _[4:20PM]:_

 _do not wait too long to figure it out_

 _[4:23PM]:_

 _you never know what you will miss while you are sitting around feeling sorry for yourself_

[4:26PM]:

I don't feel sorry for myself.

[4:30PM]:

Just because I won't share my deepest, darkest secrets with you, and braid your hair, doesn't mean for a second that I feel sorry for myself. Maybe there's nothing to share? Ever think about that? Maybe there's no story to tell. No secrets. Nothing at all. Maybe this is all you're gonna get from me, and I know that's not enough for you. That's not what you want.

[4:33PM]:

So, yeah. I don't feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for you.

* * *

MON 25 MAY

[7:03PM]:

You win.

[7:06PM]:

I don't even know why I bother putting up a fight. You bat your eyelashes and I spill my secrets. I see how it works now. So I'll just jump right into it. I dream about ugly damn clowns. Like not cutesy clowns you hire for your kids birthday party, but scary ones.

[7:06PM]:

They scare the shit out of me. Keep that to yourself, I don't want Wanda getting any ideas. This information could be deadly in the wrong hands.

[7:09PM]:

Never liked them. Avoided them at all costs when I was in the circus. I dream about that a lot as well, I guess. About all that time I spent travelling on the road. Everything that kind of happened in between performances. All the people I met. Little things, like what Barney was like back then. Sometimes she's there. Laura. She'll be sitting in the crowd, and I spot her across the room. The rest is history. We lost whatever we had. I think about that a lot as well. Don't know if it qualifies as a dream or not, but it's still there.

[7:13PM]:

Barney's there a lot. Just stuff from when we were kids. Getting ourselves into trouble, like brothers do. Like that time he broke his arm because of me. I told him he could make the jump from the top of the barn to the tree and he didn't make it. My old man almost broke my arm for it as punishment for not looking out for him. Both my parents are there, but I can't see them that well. I just hear them. They're always yelling about something.

[7:16PM]:

This is dumb. None of it makes sense.

[7:16PM]:

I should've just gone with the Alice in Wonderland thing. Anything would've been better than this.

 _[7:20PM]:_

 _not dumb_

 _[7:21PM]:_

 _keep going?_

[7:26PM]:

Alright, fine.

[7:28PM]:

Sometimes it's stuff that I haven't though about in years. Like when I went down to the river with Barney and he tied a rope off a tree and we swung from it. Jumped into the water. Most fun we'd had in months. I keep seeing that day. It's hot out. Like 90 degrees. He was happy, when we were down there. But maybe that was just because he always hoped our neighbor Maxine from next door would go skinny dipping with her twin sister.

[7:30PM]:

He always was an idiot like that.

[7:34PM]:

I even dreamt of you. At least I think it was you. I don't know anyone else with white fuzzy hair like yours, but it could've been a Yeti. Maybe not though. White hair, smart mouth, pretty blue eyes. The whole package. You're just sitting at my kitchen table, eating breakfast. Smiling over a box of damn Lucky Charms. You wanna tell me what dreams like that are meant to mean?

[7:35PM]:

Maybe you just really like breakfast cereal.

 _[7:37PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[7:40PM]:_

 _or maybe i like you? ever think about that old man_

 _[7:41PM]:_

 _even if you are a grump i still like you_

[7:25PM]:

I swear I wasn't always this bad.

 _[7:30PM]:_

 _can i call you?_

[7:32PM]:

Always.

* * *

MON 25 MAY

"So, rabbits and roses? That's the stuff you dream about?" Clint asks, twirling a bottle cap between his fingers. "Makes sense, I guess. You always looked a little too much like you were out of a Disney movie, or something. Prince Charming hair - though I don't remember Prince Charming going grey at twenty. Pretty young to have hair so white."

 _"Says the old man himself."_

"That's it? That's all you've got?"

 _"For now."_ Pietro says.

Leaning back against the headboard, Clint lets out a quiet sigh. There's something different about this - about the way they are now, quiet but not awkward, tense but not uncomfortable. Something feels different, _decided_ , and Clint can't quite figure out what that is. He wonders if Pietro feels it too.

He almost goes so far as asking him, but chickens out at the last moment.

"You're awful quiet." Clint manages, a beat later. "Still pissed?"

 _"No, not pissed. I was - well, I was bothered. That you were upset with me for asking a question."_ Pietro says, accent growing thicker with each word. Maybe it's because he actually sounds pissed, and is talking _really_ fast. _"You do not have to tell me things that upset you, but it would be - how do you say, it would be a comfort to know that I was not the only one interested. So yes, I am pissed."_

"You have every reason to be upset, Pietro."

 _"Bothered,"_ Pietro corrects. _"Again. Bothered again, because you were not honest. Honest about why you called me."_

"I called to say I was sorry. To explain why I was such a dick when we-"

 _"You could send a text to say that, you know. I think there was something else. Another reason."_

"So what if there was?"

 _"I thought you would be honest. That is what you said, yes?"_

"Maybe I just wanted to talk to you," Clint offers. "Is that a good enough reason? I like talking to you. I like it when you're there."

Pietro's voice is distant, for a second - like he's stretching for something, or balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder like Clint so often tries (and fails) to do, because ow, neck cramps. _"This reminds me of when you were drunk,"_ Pietro says. _"And we spoke on the phone, like this. You, saying such sweet things. Like you are known to do. Calling me a pain in your ass. Brat. Babe. You have called me many things."_

"I like to mix it up. Keep it interesting. Which one's your favorite?"

 _"Pain in your ass, obviously."_

"Interesting choice."

 _"Do you remember any of it? That night we first spoke? You had been drinking. It made you talk more, worry less. You said some interesting things."_

"Oh, right. I confessed my undying love for you. Gave you everything. Even gave you my dog."

 _"There were other things."_

Clint feels - well, _hot_. Warm. The uncomfortable, anxious kind of warmth that creeps up on you. Makes your heart pound like a fist against your ribcage. He drops the bottle cap into his lap and reaches for the beer on the nightstand, taking a long swig of it while Pietro stays quiet on the other end of the line, apparently deciding whether or not to continue (not that Clint's silence is much encouragement, really).

"Yeah?" Clint finally says. "What other things?"

 _"You mentioned a brother and a little about your father, how he was not kind to you. How he liked to drink. To hit you. There were other things, happier things. Like a story about how you rescued Lucky. Then you told me that -"_ Pietro hesitates. _"That you liked talking to me even if you said you did not. That I felt like something familiar. Home, I think, was the word you used. I do not remember all of it myself."_

"I said all that?"

 _"Mmm. That, and more."_

"There's nothing interesting about that. It's just me feeling sorry for myself."

 _"No,"_ Pietro says sternly. _"You feel sorry for yourself when you say things like,"_ he trailed off, at a loss for words, but then he was suddenly mimicking Clint - doing a very bad impression of what he apparently sounded like. _"Go spend time with people that are not me. Too young. I am too old for fun. All I do is make bad jokes and I hide behind them."_

"I really sound like that?"

 _"You know what I am getting at, Clint. There is nothing wrong with telling me things, but there is something sad, I think, about the way you will pretend like nothing is what it really is. You will miss out on good things if you keep closing your eyes and not seeing them."_

"Maybe I already missed out. I think I did." Clint says quietly, picking at the hem of his sleeve with the hand that isn't holding the phone up to his ear. He pulls at a thread until it gets loose, growing longer and longer. He loops it around his fingers, playing with it absentmindedly. "Doesn't mean you have to miss out, just because I did."

Pietro sighs loudly, beyond the point of exasperation, by the sound of it. _"You are doing it now. Feeling sorry for yourself. Quit it."_

"I don't feel sorry for myself. I just know what I deserve, and what I don't deserve. Ever since I screwed things up with Laura, I felt this way. Like I didn't deserve something good. She wanted so much. A family, a home, a life. And I just wanted to be alone. It fell apart after I lost my job. I just kept pushing her away until she decided she couldn't take it."

 _"Why did you lose your job?"_ Pietro asks tentatively, like he's not sure if Clint's going to snap or crack a joke.

For once in his life, Clint does neither. He keeps picking at the loose thread of his sweater; at least it keeps him from biting his nails, something he always used to do whenever he felt like he had to do something. Had to keep moving, had to keep his hands busy so that his mind was occupied. "I was shot."

* * *

so I watched aou again (probably for like the 700th time now) and was reminded of how much I adore these two together. there's just so. much. potential. so much tension. and just like everyone else, I also did not see this ship coming.


	12. Chapter 12

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

MON 25 MAY

Clint winces, pulling the phone away from his ear, as Pietro loudly exclaims, " _What? You were shot?!"_

He gives it a minute. Waits for Pietro to get over the initial shock of Clint's admission, before he presses the phone back against his ear. "I don't talk about it much, and that's - yeah. I worked for a law enforcement agency. Worked a lot of jobs as security. Gathered intel, when they needed me to. Mostly just quick jobs, in out and, no fuss. Except this one job. There was - well, fuss. I got shot. Fucked up my shoulder real bad."

 _"I do not know what to say."_

"People usually don't."

 _"How bad was it?"_ Pietro asks, a beat later.

"Never healed right. I couldn't go back to work, after that. Lost everything."

 _"It is not your fault that you were hurt. Do not blame yourself."_

"What happened next is what I won't forgive myself for."

 _"Perhaps in time."_

"Not everything can be forgiven."

 _"It is not up to you to decide whether she forgives you."_

Clint pulls at the string on his sweater. Nods along, even though he knows Pietro can't see him. "Yeah, I know. Since when did you have all the answers?"

 _"Not all,"_ Pietro murmurs. _"Just some"_

"I have a question. A serious one, for a change. No jokes," Clint says. "Did I really say, you know, all _that_. When I called you, when I was drunk, did I tell you I loved you? I mean, I know I get sappy sometimes - or moody, it can go either way, depends on what mood I'm in when I start drinking - but I guess I didn't think I was that bad. Cause that's pretty bad, considering we'd been talking what, a couple of days? Damn."

 _"Remember the night, and the answers will follow."_

"Aww, come on!" Clint laughs. "That's bullshit."

 _"Fine. I will tell you, but only since you asked so nicely. The answer is no, there was no confession of love. You did not give me your farm. You told me that you liked the sound of my voice, that it made you want to-"_

"I think you can stop there. I didn't - I wouldn't say that. I didn't."

 _"Made you want to fall asleep."_ Pietro finishes. _"Because it soothed you. But I am interested in where your mind was going with that?"_

"It was going nowhere."

 _"That is a shame."_

"Smartass."

 _"Oh,"_ Pietro says sweetly. _"I remember now. You said something about my eyes - always telling me how pretty they are. That is how you put it, yes? I also remember something about a smart mouth. I have been honest with you, so will you do the same for me?"_

"I'll try."

 _"Did it bother you,"_ he asks, accent a little thicker now, more pronounced. _"When you thought Jacob was a boyfriend?"_

Clint's mouth becomes incredibly dry. He does the only thing he can think of doing in that moment: deflect attention away from himself, and place it on Pietro. "Did it bother you when you thought Laura was my girlfriend?"

 _"That was not what I asked."_

"Do you think Jacob bothers me?"

 _"I-"_ Pietro begins, then stops abruptly, the words caught in his throat. He doesn't speak for what feels like a long moment. _"Maybe. Maybe it did bother me, when I thought that she was - that the two of you were together."_

"Oh. I didn't think you'd actually answer. Not honestly, anyway."

 _"I did, so now it is your turn. Nothing but brutal honesty."_ comes Pietro's somewhat sharp reply. He sounds nervous, which Clint finds comforting, if he's being completely honest, because at least he's not the only one on edge here. _"Go on. Does it bother you?"_

"Yes." Clint says. "It did. Does. Whatever. But if you want to, you know, have a boyfriend named Jacob then that's fine. He can answer your phone when you're not in the room, which is frankly just a little weird and intrusive, and he can buy you bagels or whatever it is you get weird cravings for. Because we're not, you know. Me and you. We're not - look, we're friends. You're like a brother."

The sound of Pietro's laughter usually makes Clint smile, but not this time. He's too busy grimacing at his use of the phrase "like a brother".

 _"This is how you see me?"_

Clint hesitates. Sure, he could lie his way out of it. Spare them both the mess of getting feelings involved, but he doesn't do that. He decides that Pietro deserves better than that - deserves the truth, something that Clint hasn't been willing to give him for a long time, always deflecting with jokes and snarky remarks. This time, he just leans back, takes another sip of his beer, and tries honesty for a change. Brutal honesty, as Pietro put it.

"No, that's not how I see you. I don't know why I said that."

 _"Then how do you see me?"_

"I'm still figuring that out myself. Besides, isn't your ego big enough already?"

Pietro sniggers on the other end of the line. _"It can be bigger."_ he says. _"So am I a bro, or a babe?"_

"Neither. You're just you, and I'm me, and I never said either of those things because both are equally embarrassing."

 _"I can be me,"_ Pietro says. _"But I am not so sure if you can be you. You do not seem to like being you very much."_

Brutal honesty, Clint reminds himself. Even if it hurts, even if it makes him sound ridiculous, he promised honesty. It takes a moment for Clint to wrap his head around what Pietro's getting at. "That's because I don't. Sometimes. I like being me when I'm like this. When I'm happy."

 _"What makes you happy?"_

"People. Nat, Steve, _you_. Hell, even Stark isn't the worst thing to happen to me. Working on my farm makes me happy. I wasn't happy after I got shot. Even before, I had - we had troubles. Because of me. Those weren't good times. I didn't like myself much back then."

 _"And these are better times, yes? Perhaps you should enjoy it more. You never know when you could get shot again._ "

"That's comforting." Clint says dryly.

 _"What I mean is you never know when the next bad thing will happen, which is why you should take moments to enjoy the good. You were hurt but you did not die._ " Pietro says softly. _"Do you want to be old and full of regrets, old man? It would be better to not think too much about it, and instead to do it."_

"Easier said than done."

 _"You know, he is not a boyfriend. Jacob is a friend of Wanda's."_

Clint sits up slightly, beer still in hand. He lifts it to his lips, waiting on Pietro to elaborate, or, at the very least, explain. Though he's not entirely sure that he's deserving of an explanation, all things considered. Natasha's words are still fresh in his mind, Clint can't shake them: take a chance on your Running Man.

"So he's not your boyfriend." Clint says slowly.

 _"He could be, if I wanted. But I don't."  
_

"But you were in the shower."

 _"Yes, but he was not in there with me."_

"You let me think he was your boyfriend."

Pietro scoffs. _"I do not let you think things. You thought he was, and I did not correct you until now. Why should I correct you? I did not know that me having a boyfriend would bother you. I did not think that was something you would be interested in knowing. Is it?_ "

"I-" Clint stopsand thinks that maybe this is a _really_ bad idea. Then again, he's always liked bad ideas. It always seemed much more fun than going the safer route (which kind of explains that 'thing' with Stark). "I'm not good at this. I don't know what to say, so I'll just try that brutal thing. The honesty. It bothered me, yeah. And maybe it's something I'm interested in knowing. I don't know what I felt. It's like I was jealous, and that confused me. I haven't been jealous in a really long time."

 _"I understand,"_ Pietro says. _"It bothered me too."_

"The only guy in my life is a golden lab, so. Nothing to be bothered over."

 _"So I have some competition then."_

Clint smiles, warmed by the sound of Pietro's laughter. "Yeah. Big competition. He's pretty charming."

 _"Is he? Do you like him best when he drools all over you?"_ Pietro teases.

"Trust me, when you meet him you'll fall in love with him. Everybody does. Can't be helped." Clint says. "It's got something to do with him having just the one eye - it's big and beady, and sweet. It's like kryptonite against us humans. We can't resist. You'll forget all about the drooling."

 _"When I meet him?"_

"What?"

 _"You said when, not if."_

"Oh. My bad. Now that I think about it, that sounds really presump-"

 _"I would like that."_ Pietro interrupts. _"To meet him."_

"Really? I mean, I'd be there too, of course. Because he is my dog, no matter how bad you want him."

 _"Actually, I was hoping that you would also be there. That is something else I want. You. For you to be there."_

There's that strange, fluttery feeling in Clint's chest again. Makes his head feel all light and dizzy. He scratches at the back of his neck, just so he can have something to do with his hands. He'd fidget too much, otherwise. It wasn't this bad, back on the job. He was calm and collected, always maintaining composure, even in the most heated moments. It didn't matter how tense or just generally shit a situation was, he remained composed.

Lately, it's like all his composure has gone out the window, and he's pretty sure Pietro has something to do with that.

"Sure." Clint says. "I'd like that a lot."

 _"One day soon?"_

"One day soon."

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

[9:07AM]:

Hey so I'd like this to be as not weird as possible.

[9:08AM]:

I'll just be my usual charming self.

[9:08AM]:

And you can keep being the same brat I've come to know and care about.

 _[9:16AM]:_

 _i think what you meant to say is babe_

 _[9:16AM]:_

 _the same babe that you know and deeply care for_

[9:20AM]:

I call you babe one time and this is what I get.

[9:24AM]:

Never gonna let it go, are you?

 _[9:30AM]:_

 _it is very unlikely that i will_

 _[9:30AM]:_

 _but we will see ;-)_

[9:33AM]:

Another lazy day today?

 _[9:36AM]:_

 _no_

 _[9:36AM]:_

 _swimming class this afternoon_

[9:40AM]:

You take swimming lessons?

 _[9:41AM]:_

 _not take, teach :-)_

[9:43AM]:

I'm impressed. How long have you been teaching for?

 _[9:45AM]:_

 _not very long_

 _[9:47AM]:_

 _3 yrs_

[9:50AM]:

Wow. Do you enjoy it?

 _[9:53AM]:_

 _yes mostly_

 _[9:54AM]:_

 _when i was a child i loved the water then wanda almost drowned and i could not swim for years i refused to go in. i thought about it every single day and missed the water but could not bring myself to do it until i was 18 she went in with me_

 _[9:56AM]:_

 _it is not so bad_

[10:01AM]:

I'm sure they love you.

 _[10:04AM]:_

 _of course they do_

 _[10:04AM]:_

 _who wouldnt? :-)_

[10:06AM]:

You know, not a lot of people can pull off the whole "obnoxious and vain" thing you've got going on.

 _[10:08AM]:_

 _you are right not many people can pull it off_

 _[10:09AM]:_

 _luckily i am not one of them_

 _[10:13AM]:_

 _i am lovable :-)_

[10:15AM]:

Likeable*

 _[10:17AM]:_

 _you said it yourself that you are sure they love me_

 _[10:20AM]:_

 _perhaps we could watch a movie tonight?_

[10:23AM]:

I'd like that. :-)

 _[10:26AM]:_

 _or we could always try something else_

 _[10:26AM]:_

 _something new_

 _[10:28AM]:_

 _what do you think?_

[10:31AM]:

I think I'm a little concerned about what you mean by "new" and I'm also not sure if I wanna know.

 _[10:34AM]:_

 _you worry too much old man_

 _[10:36AM]:_

 _i was thinking a skype call? video if you like_

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _you do know what skype is yes?_

[10:43AM]:

Yes

 _[10:46AM]:_

 _is that a yes you would like to_

 _[10:46AM]:_

 _or a yes you know what skype is?_

[10:50AM]:

The first one.

[10:52AM]:

And also, screw you. I know what Skype is. I'm not that old.

 _[10:54AM]:_

 _i am only teasing :-)_

 _[10:55AM]:_

 _i thought you liked jokes old man_

[10:57AM]:

You're right, I do like jokes. I guess that's why I like you so much.

 _[11:00AM]:_

 _because i am a joke?_

[11:03AM]:

Hey, you said it, babe. Not me.

[11:05AM]:

I gotta go finish up some jobs around town. Talk later?

[11:05AM]:

Either before your swimming lessons, or after. We'll figure it out.

 _[11:07AM]:_

 _bye babe_

[11:10AM]:

Try not to get yourself into too much trouble while I'm gone.

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

 _[1:19PM]:_

 _i am already very bored_

 _[1:19PM]:_

 _and missing you_

 _[1:20PM]:_

 _you are much more entertaining than what is on TV right now_

 _[1:24PM]:_

 _law n order SUV repeats_

 _[1:25PM]:_

 _suv**_

 _[1:25PM]:_

 _SVU_

 _[1:33PM]:_

 _day time television is not good  
_

 _[1:40PM]:_

 _when will you be finished? hopefully soon i need entertaining  
_

 _[1:47PM]:_

 _i am going for a run i will talk to you after maybe  
_

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

 _[3:04PM]:_

 _i am having a very bad time_

 _[3:07PM]:_

 _a dog chased me through the park_

 _[3:07PM]:_

 _i am not usually scared of big dogs but this one was like a small horse  
_

 _[3:09PM]:_

 _very angry and big_

 _[3:10PM]:_

 _did i tell you i am afraid of horses? i am_

 _[3:13PM]:_

 _what is to stop them from trampling you_

 _[3:14PM]:_

 _nothing_

 _[3:14PM]:_

 _the answer is nothing_

 _[3:16PM]:_

 _clint there is nothing to stop them from crushing you  
_

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _how did you survive in the circus? elephants and horses they are so big  
_

 _[3:27PM]:_

 _i have to leave for my lessons soon. will speak with you after :-)  
_

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

[3:49PM]:

Damn. Think I just missed you.

[3:56PM]:

Just caught up on your msgs. You've had a big day. A pony chased you and you couldn't decide what to watch? Sounds like the kind of thing that would only happen to you. I hope your day turned out better than mine did.

[4:01PM]:

Truck died on the way to my 1st job. Old farm I'm working on is a few miles out. I'm fixing their fences, etc. Cattle keeps getting out. My truck breaks down but I'm shit at cars. This truck is a piece of junk so I'm not surprised it crapped itself. No service, no car, nothing. Luckily a car pulled up beside me 10 mins later. Gave me a jump start.

[4:06PM]:

Worked on her barn for most of the morning. She asked me to take a look at her sink so I said I would. Not great with plumbing either. It sounds and smells like something died in and there and was clawing its way back up. Not a good thought. I couldn't fix whatever was wrong with it so I leave for my next job.

[4:09PM]:

Pay isn't great but I've picked up enough jobs around town that it makes a difference.

[4:14PM]:

Worst job was the last one. Final job of the day. The owners just moved in so they need as much help as they can get. The pay's actually not bad. I get there and get up the ladder because I'm working on the roof that afteroon. I kept telling their brat kid to not play near where I was working because it wasn't safe. Kid doesn't listen, of course. When do they ever listen?

[4:16PM]:

I think you can pretty much put together what happened next.

[4:17PM]:

If not, here's how it went: he ran by and smacked straight into the ladder, knocking it out from under me. I had 2 options. Go down with it or get off, so I grab onto the roof and hang off the rusty gutter. It gave out and I broke three fingers on the way down. Wasn't a long fall but it screwed my hand up really nice.

[4:21PM]:

Nothing to worry about now though. Doc strapped my fingers together after he put a bone back in place. Really ruined the mood I had going after talking to you last night. My hand's numb now and I can't feel a thing. Kinda hard to type with one hand. Takes a little longer.

[4:26PM]:

Look at me whining like the old man you always tell me I am.

[4:27PM]:

Have fun at your lessons. Xx

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

 _[7:03PM]:_

 _?_

 _[7:05PM]:_

 _is this one of your jokes?  
_

 _[7:05PM]:_

 _i am worried that you are not joking_

 _[7:09PM]:_

 _lessons kept me longer please tell me you are ok_

 _[7:15PM]:_

 _you should be more careful_

 _[7:17PM]:_

 _what if it was more serious?_

[7:25PM]:

Look at you, getting all worried. It's just a few broken fingers.

[7:27PM]:

3 isn't even that bad. Barney broke all 5 once. Twice, now that I think about it.

 _[7:30PM]:_

 _be serious_

 _[7:31PM]:_

 _what if it was worse?_

[7:34PM]:

If it was worse, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation.

 _[7:36PM]:_

 _because you would be dead?_

 _[7:37PM]:_

 _that is not funny_

 _[7:39PM]:_

 _what a terrible joke to make_

[7:44PM]:

Hey, that's not where I was going. What I meant was if it was any worse, I would've broken all fingers on both hands, and wouldn't be able to text you. Meaning we wouldn't be able to have this conversation. Nobody's saying anything about me dying. At least I'm not saying it?

[7:48PM]:

Besides, you always make jokes about me being an old man on my deathbed. How's that any different?

 _[7:54PM]:_

 _it is different because i am the one joking_

 _[7:56PM]:_

 _this is serious_

[8:03PM]:

It's really not serious, I promise. My fingers are wrapped up all nice and snug. I've got time off work while they heal.

[8:05PM]:

Promise it's not as bad as you're imagining it to be.

[8:05PM]:

It's just a small fracture.

 _[8:08PM]:_

 _i want to see_

[8:10PM]:

Like what, a picture?

 _[8:13PM]:_

 _like skype_

[8:15PM]:

Would that make you feel better?

[8:16PM]:

To see that I am actually still 100% alive?

 _[8:19PM]:_

 _yes_

 _[8:20PM]:_

 _pietro . maximoff _1_

 _[8:24PM]:_

 _add me but do not call i need to shower first_

 _[8:26PM]:_

 _i will call once i am back_

 _[8:26PM]:_

 _try not to get in any trouble while i am gone as you say to me  
_

 _[8:29PM]:_

 _or in your case try not to fall off any roofs_

[8:31PM]:

Can't make any promises. :-)

 _[8:33PM]:_

 _still not funny_

 _[8:33PM]:_

 _stay indoors_

* * *

I recommend checking this chapter out on ao3, because you can actually see the emojis that Clint and Pietro uses. For some reason they never show up on and I don't know how to fix that. Sorry!


	13. Chapter 13

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

Clint only has two contacts on Skype. Natasha, who he used to video call constantly way _way_ back in the day. He remembers images of Natasha outside a sunny café in a foreign city; remembers the way the afternoon light made her red hair look even brighter. He has other memories too, like Natasha calling him from a fancy hotel, swaddled up in blankets.

His other contact is Steve Rogers, who is seriously _so_ bad at Skype that Bucky has to take over most of the time, which really isn't that much of an improvement but at least he's not Steve - Steve, who dials and hangs up within the same second. Steve, who types so slowly that it's actually painful and Clint logs out because of it. Steve, whose camera is apparently now broken from when Bucky accidentally kicked it off the bed (how that happened, Clint would rather not know) and now they have to share Bucky's MacBook.

Steve, who taps at the screen like he expects something to happen, _really_ shouldn't be on Skype.

It doesn't come as much of a surprise by now that wherever Steve is, Bucky is. The two are attached at the hip, and that is _exactly_ what led to the terrible, horrible, very bad thing that happened earlier this year. Clint refers to it as 'The Incident' and he refuses to talk about it, except if you get a few beers in him then he will gladly spill his guts. He was in the middle of a video call with Steve when he left the room, promising Clint that he would return once he was done with the last load of laundry for the afternoon.

Steve's first mistake was leaving the camera running.

Moments later, Bucky stepped out of the ensuite and into the bedroom, hair damp, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He sat on the edge of the bed and towel dried his hair, apparently oblivious that Clint was, well, _watching._ Gawking was probably the more accurate term. And then Steve returned, as fate would have it. Bucky cornered him against the nearest wall and pinned his hands above his hands.

Steve's second mistake was allowing himself to be seduced by Bucky while the camera was still very much running.

Clint had smashed at his keyboard, pressing all the buttons, which was probably what caused his computer to freeze. In that moment, everything froze, including Steve. Everything except the video feed, which documented the exact second that the towel fell from Bucky's waist, and Steve's eyes went wide as he saw Clint's somewhat horrified expression on his laptop screen.

The last thing Clint heard before slamming the lid of his laptop shut was the sound of laughter, followed by Bucky shouting " _Barton, you pervert!_ "

Yeah. He hasn't really been able to live that one down just yet. Bucky takes pretty much every change he can get to remind Clint of it, asking him if he "wants to watch" to which Steve almost always responds by choking on whatever he's drinking or eating. And maybe that's why Clint never worked up the nerve to add Stark as a contact, too afraid of seeing Tony in any form of undress.

"Think happy thoughts," Clint says, trying to rid _that_ image from his mind. He gets up and grabs a soda out of the fridge. Sipping from it slowly, Clint returns to his spot at the kitchen table and tries to remember why he thought this would be a good idea. "Happy thoughts."

No message from Pietro yet, but he accepted Clint's request, which means he's still awake (either that, or Wanda got to the laptop before Pietro could, and that thought sends a small chill down Clint's spine). It also means that Clint now has three contacts on Skype. Weird. It's only 9PM, a little too early for either of them to be in bed, really. Pietro's the one that keeps him up at night, drawing their conversations out until the early hours of the morning.

Clint sips at his soda and clears out his inbox. Spam, spam, trash, a wedding invitation (who even does that via email?) and more trash. He deletes most of the messages, except for a dozen or so. He's in the middle of typing up a reply to Coulson when a notification for an incoming Skype call pops up on his screen, followed by a shrill ringtone that he hasn't heard in months.

 _Pietro M calling..._

There's a small avatar to the left of Pietro's name; an image of Pietro and a girl, their faces so smooshed together in the picture that they are practically one being. He wonders if that's Wanda. Her eyes are a soft shade of jade, while Pietro's are blue, and her hair is much darker than his. Clint stares at the screen some more, because that's apparently going to solve all of his problems.

He has three options: answer, answer with video, or decline.

Clint smoothes a hand over his shirt, brushing away wrinkles in the fabric that aren't really there. He's wearing a dark red tartan with a black tank top underneath, and a pair of old work jeans. The kitchen tiles are cool underneath Clint's bare feet. He reclines a little in the chair, hand still poised over the mouse, ready to click _accept_ as soon as he works up the nerve.

"Fuck it. What's the worst that can happen?" Clint murmurs, hitting _answer with video_ before he misses the call entirely.

It takes a second for the call to connect properly, and in that time (it feels like it stretches on for an eternity, even if it was probably closer to 0.5 seconds) all Clint can do is bounce his knee up and down. The screen is crackly and unclear, fragmented images, before Pietro's face finally comes into focus. Even though a part of his brain registers that it's probably rude and creepy and just _super_ weird, all Clint can do is stare.

That is until the rational side of his brain kicks in, and he clears his throat, spluttering over his first words. "Uh - fuck. Hi."

Pietro's smile is so many things to Clint, in that moment. Beautiful and sweet and surprising, but most of all it's a comfort. It's reassuring. He's sitting on a office chair of some description, with a towel draped over his shoulders, and an old pair of sweats on. Clint swears that he's doing it on purpose, the whole 'yes I look this good after getting out of the shower, I also conveniently forgot to put a shirt on, oops' but Clint's really not complaining.

 _"You left me waiting for so long,"_ Pietro says suddenly. _"I thought you would not answer at all."_

It's one thing to hear Pietro's voice on the other end of the line, during one of their _many_ phonecalls. This is something else entirely.

"Me? Come on. I'd never leave you waiting." Clint smiles, taking in as much of it as he can; the quirk of Pietro's smile, the freckle that Clint can spot on his right shoulder, the way he fidgets with his hands almost nervously. Almost. There's still an air of confidence about him, even through here.

 _"Will you show me it?"_

"Gotta at least buy me dinner first."

Pietro rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the camera - fixed on Clint. It's almost unnerving, that piercing blue stare, tracking each movement. Clint picks up his soda and takes a long swig of it, and he tries _really_ hard not to look at Pietro's toned arms. Muscles ripple in Pietro's shoulder as he stands up, taking the laptop with him. He sets it down on the bed, leaving it there as he walks toward the far side of the room, trading the towel over his shoulders for a plain white tee, a low cut v-neck that is unfairly tight on him.

He sits cross-legged on the bed and turns the laptop so that it's facing him again, fixing Clint with a sweet smile.

"You suddenly have a lot less to say now that we're, well, speaking. Thought you'd be pissed at me because of my hand." Clint says, holding the hand in question up weakly; it's not sore right now, but Clint does feel a sudden throbbing pain every so often. Pietro's eyes flick between Clint's strapped fingers and his face.

 _"Perhaps I am surprised. The old man is not as old as he claimed to be."_

"Screw you, you've seen my face before."

 _"But not like this."_ Pietro reminds.

"Guess not." Clint sips at his soda idly. "How were your lessons?"

Pietro pulls a face, wrinkling his nose slightly, and Clint really shouldn't find that as endearing as he does. _"I smell like chlorine now."_

"There are worse things to smell like."

 _"Like dog slobber? You and Lucky know each other very intimately."_

"Sounding a little jealous there, bud. Don't worry, I might let you slobber on me eventually, once we're at that stage."

 _"And you do not think we are there yet?"_

Clint laughs quietly and gives a small shake of his head. "Not quite yet. Gotta take me to dinner first."

The smile that had been tugging at Pietro's mouth only continues to grow. _"So you keep saying. I wonder if you will actually mean it one day. For now, I think you are joking, but perhaps you will mean it eventually."_ he says, tilting his head to the side curiously, in a cat-like way. _"You are different to how I remembered. Sometimes I forget what your face looks like._ "

"And how do you remember me?" Clint asks, a beat later, curiousity getting the better of him. "Probably as an old man, with no teeth, playing chess in the park. But I wanna hear it from you. What do you remember about me?"

 _"Doesn't matter."_ Pietro waves it off. _"I have someone that wants to meet you. Stay there."_

"Yes, boss." Clint exhales. He finishes his soda before Pietro returns, and is about to grab another drink from the fridge (whether that be a beer, or a soda, he isn't entirely sure) when Pietro returns, and in his hands he's holding a very tiny kitten. "Oh, hey. I didn't realize it was snowing outside. Is that where you got the snowball from?"

 _"That is her name, so it is less funny now."_

Pietro holds the kitten up to the camera, for Clint to see. He has to admit that she is pretty cute. Pietro gently sets her down on the bed, and Clint watches as she wanders around, purring against Pietro's open hand before climbing up into his lap. And then something seems to catch her attention, and she's gone, launching off of the bed and out of Clint's line of sight.

 _"She likes to chase things, including Wanda. She is very energetic."_ Pietro says, looking back to Clint with a coy smile. He wets his lips, glancing away for a fraction of a second, before shoving the laptop forward and laying down flat on his stomach, his eyes back on Clint.

"Comfy?"

 _"Very much."_ Pietro says. _"How is your hand? Are you in pain?"_

"It's not too bad now. Happy now that you saw it?" he asks, holding his hand back up for Pietro to see. "Just a few broken fingers."

Pietro chews on his lower lip for a moment. His hair looks silver in this light. _"You should be more careful. I would not like it if something happened bad to you."_ he says, a beat later. Then goes right back to chewing on his bottom lip, and that's actually pretty damn distracting; it's right up there with the pale, exposed column of his throat that Clint can't stop staring at.

"Nothing's gonna happen to me."

 _"You say that, but then you go and you fall off a roof."_

"You're actually upset about this, aren't you? Shit. Look, I got knocked off a ladder by a bratty kid. I'm fine. I'm not leaving you, even if you are a pain in my ass most of the time, you're good people and I like that. I like you. I thought you knew that by now."

 _"So did I, but you are not always very clear with me. We have had a misunderstanding in the past."_

Clint runs a hand through his hair, carding through it slowly. "I'm working on that, remember? Ask me anything you want, and I'll answer."

That seems to pique Pietro's interest, and for some reason that makes Clint nervous, and whether it's because he's seeing him for the first time - not just in pictures, not just a figment of Clint's imagination - or because he's still a little buzzed from the pain medication that they gave him earlier, he isn't sure. Pietro inclines his head slightly, a nod to indicate that he's up for what Clint suggested.

 _"I want to know,"_ Pietro begins, drawing each word out slowly. " _What your dreams about me are like."_

"Didn't we already go through this? Remember, you're sitting - actually, in those particular dreams, you're sitting where I'm sitting right now, eating breakfast cereal and smiling across the table at me. It's all very gross and domestic. Do I get a turn?"

 _"Go ahead."_

"I actually don't have a question right now." Clint confessed. "I'll let you know when I think of something good."

Pietro nods, brushing long strands of hair out of his eyes. He seems to be examining Clint's surroundings as much as Clint is examining his own. For some ridiculous reason, Clint suddenly feels a little insecure about his quaint farmhouse. Pietro's room looks nice: shades of blue and white, and shiny surfaces. He doesn't get much of a look, beyond that.

 _"Happy that we tried something new, old man? It is not so bad."_

"Yeah, you're right. It's nice. To finally see you and talk to you, not just through a phone. I can think of worse things to be doing right now, so this is...it's good. I'm happy we gave it a shot. You're also pretty easy on the eyes, so there's no complaints on this end."

Smiling, Pietro drags himself up into a sitting position, pulling the laptop up onto his knees. _"There you go again, telling me how pretty I am. You know, if you are not careful, someone could think you actually like me."_

"Never called you pretty. I think the word I used was easy. Yeah. Easy on the eyes."

 _"Same thing though, yes?"_

"Yeah, same thing. For the record, I do like you. I do."

 _"Did you think of a good question? Because I thought of something, but I do not want to wait my turn."_

"Shoot."

 _"In what way do you like me?"_

Pietro's stare is the same as it has always been: unwavering. But there is a softness to it, something sweet and vulnerable. His stare is never hostile or unwelcome, mostly just inquisitive, those big blue eyes were always filled with curiousity. Clint wets his lips and gives a half assed shrug, lifting his right shoulder slightly. Pietro narrows his eyes at him.

 _"That is not a very good answer."_

"I have an answer, alright? I'm just not sure if it's the answer you want to hear."

Displeased, he fixes Clint with another look of exasperation. _"Also not what I was looking for."_

"Fine." Clint says, huffing out a sigh. "All you gotta do is bat your eyelashes and I just give up. So, you want to know how I like you? I like you. As a friend, that's how I - we were friends first. And then maybe I liked you in a way that was different to that. Very different. But I'm pretty sure you already know that by now, so I'm not sure why you need to me say it."

 _"Because I needed you to say it, so I would not make a fool of myself."_

"Hey, if anyone's the fool here, it's probably-"

 _"Probably both of us,"_ Pietro interrupts. _"Not just you, Clint. Both of us."_

"I've been a fool a few times before, when it comes to stuff like this. Idiot is probably the better word. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, to be an idiot with you."

There's a slight crease on Pietro's brow, and he _really_ shouldn't be allowed to look that gorgeous with his face all pinched up in confusion. _"What are you saying?"_ he asks, impossibly blue eyes fixed on Clint. _"Are you calling me an idiot?"_

"Really gonna make me say it, aren't you?" Clint sighs, leaning forward. He sits up a little straighter in his chair, wincing a little at the sharp pain in his shoulder. He hopes it goes unnoticed, and it does. The last thing he wants is for Pietro to get himself more worked up over Clint's injuries. "I'd like it if we got to know each other. And no, I'm not calling you an idiot. Idiot."

 _"But you just called me an idiot."_

"I said it affectionately."

Pietro narrows his eyes at Clint, like he's trying to figure him out. _"We know each other."_

"Not like that."

 _"Like what?"_

"You know what."

 _"I will not date boys like Jacob,"_ Pietro suggests. _"Does that clear things up, old man?"_

"Oh. Yeah, that does clear things up. Um," Clint swallows, hard. "I won't date boys named Jacob either."

Pietro leans closer to the screen, a smirk on his lips. _"Am I still competing against a dog?"_

"He's pretty cute," Clint concedes. "But you do have the advantage of being an actual human that I find attractive, and not a dog. You win."

 _"And what is my prize?"_

Clint does that thing again, where his mind kind of just _stops_ working and all he can do is stare. Blink, and stare some more. Pietro's unfairly attractive, and he really shouldn't be wearing that stupid white v-neck. Clint clears his throat and tries to be casual. He shrugs nonchalantly, but it's a little too rigid, an awkwardness there that he can't shake.

"What do you want?" Clint asks.

There's a brief pause where Pietro seems to be seriously considering his answer. _"I will let you know when I figure it out."_

"Maybe don't wait too long," Clint suggests. "Never know what you'll miss out on while you're still making up your mind. Someone wise once told me that. Maybe he wasn't _super_ wise, but he's cute and seems to know what he's talking about most of the time, so take his word for it. They're good words to live by."

 _"That is very cute, using my own words against me."_

"I was going for wise, not cute."

 _"Well, you-"_ Pietro stops, stifling a yawn with his hand. He settles back against the pillows a little more, and fixes Clint with a sleepy smile. _"I think I will not be awake for much longer. There were things I wanted to talk about. Other things that will have to wait."_

"Hey, we've got time. Loads of time." Clint assured, returning the smile. "Another time?"

 _"We are always making these promises. One day, another time. I think we are maybe putting it off. Perhaps it is nerves, or doubt-"_

"I don't see it that way. We're not putting it off, we're taking our time. Getting to know each other. There's nothing to be nervous about." Clint gently interrupts. "That's all it is. This - whatever _this_ is - doesn't have to be anything more than what we want it to be. It can be whatever we want."

Pietro nods slowly, blinking sleepily at the screen. _"And what do you want it to be?"_

"I just want to get to know you. That's all I want."

 _"You do not ask for much, Clint Barton."_ he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lifts a hand to the screen and traces the outline of where Clint's face is. There's something fond in his gaze, and it makes Clint's insides get all weird and jittery again. The last thing he sees before the call cuts out is Pietro's smile, and he has to admit it's a pretty nice memory to be left with.

* * *

TUES 26 MAY

[9:57PM]:

That was nice. More than nice.

[10:00PM]:

Made me forget all about my broken fingers, so thank you.

[10:02PM]:

We'll have to do it again sometime. If you're up for it. :)

[10:02PM]:

Night, Pietro. Sweet dreams. Xx

* * *

 **A/N:** I appreciate all of the feedback, thank you!


	14. Chapter 14

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

WED 27 MAY

 _"Take your hand away from the camera."_

Clint considers it. He really, honestly, _truly_ considers it. On one hand, it would make Pietro happy for reasons Clint doesn't dwell on, but on the other hand Clint has only been awake for 10 minutes or so, maybe less, _probably less_ , and he's not sure if he can really handle all of that just yet. Pietro, however, seems to be quite the early bird. Up to catch the worm, or whatever.

There's a cup of coffee downstairs with Clint's name on it, but he stays put, for now. He keeps his thumb over the camera and sinks back against the pillows, mindful of the fingers that are still very much broken on his right hand. He's not really sure why he hasn't gone downstairs yet. Maybe it's because he just woke up, or maybe it's because Pietro's bed hair is a thing of beauty. Just because Clint blocked out the camera on his end doesn't mean he can't still see Pietro.

Because he can.

He can see him as clear as day, which means he can _also_ see the look of irritation on Pietro's face when Clint finally answers.

"Make me."

 _"And I am the child?"_

"Come on, I just woke up. Nobody wants to see that."

Pietro rolls his eyes and lifts a spoonful of Froot Loops to his mouth. He chews away happily, looking way more at ease than Clint feels. There's movement behind him, then a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly Wanda is peering at the screen, dark hair tumbling over her shoulder like a curtain. She narrows her eyes, something curious in her gaze.

"Oh, hey, Wanda."

 _"Clint."_ she says, giving Pietro's shoulder a light squeeze.

"The camera's broken. Otherwise I'd say hi."

 _"Lies,"_ comes Pietro's reply. _"He is too scared to face me. The camera is not broken, we used it last night."_

Wanda's gone, a beat later, disappearing somewhere to Pietro's left. He sets his cereal bowl down and lifts a glass of orange juice to his lips, still staring intently at the camera like he's waiting Clint out. And he probably is, seeing as he also has _nothing_ to do today, just like Clint. With a sigh, Clint drops his hand away and fixes Pietro with a thin smile.

"Happy? You got what you wanted."

 _"Always happy to see you."_

"God." Clint groans, shaking his head. "Anybody ever tell you how full of shit you are?"

 _"All the time, of course. Mostly you though."_

"Enjoying your sugary breakfast?"

Pietro makes a small noise of contentment, shovelling another spoonful into his mouth, and Clint can add that to the list of things he strangely finds endearing about Pietro. Clint nurses his hand against his chest, still slumped against the pillows. Something in Pietro's expression shifts when his eyes fall on Clint's bandaged hand. He sets his bowl aside again and drags the kitchen chair closer to the table.

 _"Still in pain?"_ Pietro asks softly.

"Only a little. I've got stuff to take that's supposed to help."

 _"You know, you do not look so bad in the morning."_

"Uh, thanks. You too." Clint says. "Gimme one sec."

Picking the laptop up with the hand that isn't crippled, Clint makes his way downstairs slowly, sets the laptop down on the counter and waits for his coffee to be ready. Pietro hasn't so much as budged, but there's an apple in his hands that wasn't there before. He toys with the fruit, for a moment, running his fingers over the shiny, unblemished skin. Clint can actually hear the crunch Pietro's teeth make as they pierce the skin of the apple. He busies himself with fixing up a cup of coffee, still half turned towards the laptop.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Pietro licking a long stripe down his palm. Part of him doesn't even want to know, or ask, because _seriously_. But curiosity gets the better of him, just like it always does where Pietro's involved.

"You don't have to chew off your own arm if you're still hungry," Clint comments. "That apple looks just fine to me."

 _"Apple juices."_ Pietro's head snaps up, like he forgot Clint was still there. _"It was sticky."_

"Balancing out the sugar with some fruit?"

 _"Something like that, yes."_

Clint fixes himself up a cup of coffee and sets it down on the kitchen table, bringing the laptop over a beat later. He settles in, just like he did last night, content to sip at the hot beverage slowly, while Pietro chomps away happily on his apple.

 _"How do you take your coffee?"_ Pietro asks. The apple has been gnawed at down to the core now. Clint can see the seeds.

"Black. Not always though, it depends."

 _"On how you slept?"_

Nodding, Clint raises his cup. "You catch on quick."

 _"It is funny,"_ Pietro begins, in that voice that tells Clint that whatever it is, it's actually not going to be funny. He braces himself for it. _"That you still do not remember that talk we had. When you had been drinking and I asked if I could call you. Strange. You were like this - open with me. Wanting to talk. Coffee seems to do the trick, just like the alcohol did."_

"Guess we'll never know what gets me talking." Clint says, partially distracted by the way Pietro keeps chewing on the apple, even though there's hardly anything left on it now. How he managed to devour it that quickly, Clint will never know. He shivers. "You're really taking that apple to town, aren't you?"

 _"Always changing the subject."_

"I don't know what you want me to say. I'm still not remembering things. Whatever I said, whatever you said, it's just not coming back. I wish it was, because it's driving me crazy not knowing." he lifts the cup to his mouth, but doesn't drink from it yet. "You told me some of it. Things I said about the past, about my family. Maybe not knowing the rest of that conversation is fine with me."

 _"Does it hurt?"_

"Does what hurt? My hand?"

 _"Not your hand."_

Clint sets his mug down slowly. "You mean my shoulder?" he asks, suddenly aware of how visible the scar is. Clint's dressed down, wearing a pair of old pajama bottoms and a tank top from the night before, which leaves his shoulders bare and puts the scar on display. "Not really. It's been a few years."

 _"I also have a scar, from when I was younger. It was not from a bullet, but from when we lost our home. Big scar,"_ Pietro says, like he's trying to make Clint feel better about his own. The apple is gone now, but an orange has taken its place. Pietro peels the skin away slowly, dropping it to the left of the laptop (probably in his cereal bowl, Clint thinks). He finds himself oddly fascinated by the way Pietro's fingers work, peeling the skin apart, licking the juice from his skin once more.

"Yeah?" he asks belatedly. "How'd you get it."

 _"Now that is a very long story, and perhaps for another time. The point is that you are not the only one. There is nothing wrong with them."_

"You're pretty good at this. Making me feel better."

Pietro smiles and pops a segment of orange into his mouth. _"It is what I do. Will you do something for me?"_

"Sure." Clint says. "Anything."

 _"Will you let me pick the movie tonight?"_

"You get _one_ last chance, alright? This is it. Just because you're cute and I'm kinda into you, doesn't mean you can get away with everything. Nothing with clowns, that's all I ask. And nothing like that last one. What was it called? Doesn't matter. I can't do it again."

 _"I will see what I can do, but first I would like to go back to that part where you said I was cute,"_ Pietro says. _"And you are into me."_

"Kinda into you."

 _"So not completely?"_

Clint laughs into his coffee, the cup poised to his lips. Most of the warmth is gone now, since he left it sitting for so long, but he doesn't seem to mind as much this morning. Usually, he would brew another cup, but he's happy enough to sit here talking with Pietro, sipping on a cup of cold coffee. "No, not completely. Gotta try a bit harder to win me over _completely_."

 _"You will have to let me know when I am close."_

"Something tells me you'll know it when it happens."

 _"Will it look something like this?"_

"Like what?"

Pietro shrugs with one shoulder, something almost coy in the way he's looking at Clint now. _"Like happiness. You seem happy."_

"That's because I am, Speedy."

* * *

WED 27 MAY

 _[12:09PM]:_

 _what about the terminator? have you seen those_

 _[12:14PM]:_

 _narnia?_

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _i will take that as a no_

 _[12:19PM]:_

 _it is hard to pick something when you scare easy_

[12:26PM]:

Screw you.

[12:29PM]:

What about World War Z?

 _[12:34PM]:_

 _seen it_

 _[12:38PM]:_

 _the girl with the dragon tattoo?_

[12:40PM]:

Seen it.

 _[12:42PM]:_

 _water for elephants?_

[12:45PM]:

You're a funny guy. How long have you been sitting on that one?

 _[12:50PM]:_

 _since we started talking about movies_

[12:52PM]:

I thought you had a fear of elephants?

 _[12:55PM]:_

 _of horses_

 _[12:58PM]:_

 _how do you feel about space?_

 _[12:59PM]:_

 _interstellar?_

[1:04PM]:

Seen it.

 _[1:07PM]:_

 _wall-e is one of my favorites but i know that the end of the world movies scare you so no_

 _[1:09PM]:_

 _hunger games?_

[1:13PM]:

We could always watch something with horses, funny guy.

 _[1:08PM]:_

 _dracula then?_

[1:14PM]:

Sounds good. I haven't seen it yet, and I doubt there will be any horses so you're good.

 _[1:17PM]:_

 _will i see you in the park today?_

 _[1:18PM]:_

 _i am leaving for a run now_

[1:20PM]:

Not sure I'm up for that. My fingers are still very much broken.

[1:23PM]:

Raincheck?

 _[1:24PM]:_

 _i will hold you to that_

[1:26PM]:

I'm counting on it. :-)

* * *

WED 27 MAY

[2:05PM]:

Whenever you get back, I've got a question for you.

[2:05PM]:

Nothing big, don't freak out.

[2:07PM]:

It's just been on my mind since this morning.

[2:08PM]:

Enjoy your run. x

[2:13PM]:

Also, you were right. Daytime television sucks so bad.

* * *

WED 27 MAY

 _[3:24PM]:_

 _i am back barton did you miss me_

 _[3:27PM]:_

 _oh you are using your serious words what is it?_

 _[3:30PM]:_

 _is something wrong?_

 _[3:34PM]:_

 _you did not break any fingers on the other hand did you_

 _[3:39PM]:_

 _what bone is it now? you are hopeless clint_

[3:46PM]:

I didn't break any other bones, promise.

[3:49PM]:

Go wash up. We'll talk after.

 _[3:52PM]:_

 _what is it?_

 _[3:54PM]:_

 _you have to tell me what it is_

[3:58PM]:

I just wanted to ask you something, that's all.

 _[4:03PM]:_

 _so? ask_

[4:08PM]:

Choc chip or hazelnut?

 _[4:13PM]:_

 _.._ _ **..**_

 _[4:15PM]:_

 _what_

 _[4:17PM]:_

 _that is what you wanted to ask me?_

 _[4:19PM]:_

 _choc chip obviously_

[4:21PM]:

Obviously. :-)

[4:22PM]:

What would I do without you?

 _[4:27PM]:_

 _probably starve_

[4:31PM]:

I'd be lost without you.

[4:35PM]:

There was actually a real question. There still is something I want to ask.

 _[4:37PM]:_

 _mmhm sure there is_

 _[4:39PM]:_

 _banana_

[4:42PM]:

What?

 _[4:45PM]:_

 _cat_

 _[4:45PM]:_

 _beyonce_

 _[4:47PM]:_

 _pineapples_

[4:50PM]:

I'm not really sure what's going on.

[4:53PM]:

Are you malfunctioning?

 _[4:56PM]:_

 _i am answering all of your questions_

 _[4:58PM]:_

 _the sun_

 _[4:58PM]:_

 _C_

[5:01PM]:

I feel like I should stop you before you make an ass of yourself.

[5:03PM]:

Oh, too late. My bad.

 _[5:06PM]:_

 _if there is a real question then what is it?_

[5:07PM]:

Why me?

 _[5:08PM]:_

 _what is that supposed to mean?_

 _[5:12PM]:_

 _why you? what does that mean? why do i talk to you?_

[5:15PM]:

The last one. Why do you talk to me?

 _[5:18PM]:_

 _because i like you_

 _[5:20PM]:_

 _that is all there is to it_

 _[5:20PM]:_

 _now if you are done asking stupid questions then i am going to shower_

[5:24PM]:

Hey, my questions might be stupid, but so are your answers.

[5:28PM]:

Banana, pineapples, the sun.

[5:29PM]:

You have a weird fascination with the color yellow.

 _[5:33PM]:_

 _well you have a weird fascination with me_

[5:36PM]:

And I thought my jokes were bad.

* * *

WED 27 MAY

[5:53PM]:

I have bad news.

 _[5:57PM]:_

 _like fell off the roof bad news or fell in love with me bad news?_

 _[5:58PM]:_

 _i would not be surprised at either happening_

[6:04PM]:

Somewhere in between the two, I think.

[6:05PM]:

I need to take a raincheck on Dracula.

[6:08PM]:

Nat called 5 minutes ago to ask what time she should pick me up. Apparently it's Pepper's birthday and I didn't remember til now.

 _[6:09PM]:_

 _? what_

[6:12PM]:

Oh, right. Pepper is Tony's on-again, off-again girlfriend. She's having a small thing at a bar and I'd feel like shit if I missed her birthday 2 years in a row. Guess I could pick up some booze on the way, but I might be tempted to crack it open on the drive over. Tony isn't exactly the easiest person to be with.

[6:13PM]:

To be around, I mean. He isn't easy to be around.

[6:15PM]:

I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm making it worse.

 _[6:17PM]:_

 _you are hopeless_

 _[6:17PM]:_

 _go and celebrate the birthday with your friend_

[6:20PM]:

I feel like shit for screwing up our night.

 _[6:23PM]:_

 _there will be plenty of other nights_

[6:26PM]:

Yeah? You think so?

 _[6:27PM]:_

 _yes_

[6:30PM]:

Are you sure? What will you do tonight?

 _[6:33M]:_

 _i will go with wanda to a work thing it is no trouble_

[6:35PM]:

Could be worse, right? I could've fallen off a roof again.

 _[6:37PM]:_

 _or fallen in love with me_

 _[6:38PM]:_

 _have a drink for me, yes?_

[6:40PM]:

Yeah, of course.

[6:45PM]:

Would it really be so bad?

 _[6:47PM]:_

 _having a drink for me? no, probably not_

[6:50PM]:

You know that's not what I meant.

 _[6:51PM]:_

 _try to have some fun, old man x_

* * *

WED 27 MAY

The bar is small and a little too crowded for Clint's liking, but the music isn't half bad, the company's nice and there's a drink in Clint's hand, so he's really not complaining. He lifts the glass of whiskey to his lips, salutes Steve - who is sitting across the other side of the bar, arm draped over Bucky's shoulders, wedged in between Sam and Bucky in a dark leather booth - then tips it back, swallowing a mouthful before setting the empty glass down.

He orders a beer and checks his messages, _again_. Nothing. Clint locks the screen and slips the phone into his jacket pocket with a sigh.

At least there's an open bar. That makes Clint feel a little bit better about the cold shoulder Pietro's giving him. Tony has only hit on Clint twice since he arrived, which is also a good thing. It's also a new record for Stark, who really can't help himself when it comes to innuedos and shitty pick up lines. Clint grabs his beer and makes his way over to the U-shaped booth, slotting in next to Sam.

"How'd you say you broke it again?" Bucky asks, before Clint's ass is even on the seat. He's grinning like the little shit Clint always knew he was.

"I dunno. How'd you break your face?"

"What?"

"I fell off a roof. The same thing happen to you, Buck?" Clint asks, taking a swig of his beer. "Is that why you look so rough tonight?"

"Maybe." Bucky says. "I can think of another reason why."

"Not this again."

"Stevie said you can watch this time."

"For the record," Steve chimes in. "I didn't say that."

"Why are you three always so weird?" Clint asks.

"I'm not part of this," Sam says, clearing his throat. "Definitely not a part of this."

"Not part of what? I want in. I call dibs on Rogers." Tony's voice comes from somewhere over Clint's shoulder. He slides into the booth, squishes up against Bucky's side and winks at Clint in a matter of seconds. Clint's not really sure what Stark's drinking, but it's pink and there's a bright orange silly straw in it. There's also an umbrella hat in the drink, or there _was,_ until Stark plucked it out of the glass, stretched over Bucky and tucked it behind Steve's ear.

Steve sighs wearily. He doesn't even try to bat Tony's hand away, and when he speaks he sounds resigned, like this isn't the first time he's had this discussion with Tony. "You can't call dibs on a person, Stark. You just can't."

"I can and _have_ , Rogers. Suck it up. What are we part of?"

"Barton wants to watch." Bucky says, matter-of-factly. "That's what you're not part of.

" _Yet_." Tony reminds. "I call dibs on Rogers."

Clint rubs at his temple and tries to remind himself why he thought this would be a good idea. He's about to climb out of the booth and make a proper run for it, wounded hand cradled against his chest, when Natasha's hand comes down on his shoulder. Sam orders a round of shots and Natasha slides into the booth next to Clint, a whiskey sour in one hand. There's _that_ look in her eyes again, the 'if I suffer, you suffer with me' look.

Two shots of vodka later, and somewhere in between Stark's dick jokes and Bucky's blatant attempts to get a rise out of him, Clint actually starts to enjoy himself. He's wise enough not to enter a drinking contest with Natasha Romanoff - been there, done that, he doesn't need a rematch - but apparently Bucky has a death wish. Clint doesn't want to stick around for that. To his surprise, Natasha stands up to let him pass. Part of him wonders why she's suddenly letting him off the hook, but he doesn't dare question it.

"I'd say it was nice knowing you, Barnes." Clint says, slowly retreating. "But it wasn't.

Bucky flips him off but Clint's too buzzed to give a shit. He finds Pepper at the bar and apologizes for the crappy gift, _again_. She smiles and waves it off easily, leaving to go see what kinds of trouble Tony is getting himself into. Clint leans against the bar and orders a bourbon on the rocks. He toys with a coaster, scratching at it idly while he waits on his drink.

The bartender returns a beat later, setting the glass down in front of him. Clint sets the coaster down and reaches for the drink, looking up for the first time to say ' _thanks_ ' but the words get stuck in his throat. She's _beautiful_. Sharp green eyes stare back at Clint curiously. Her dark hair is swept over her shoulders, pulled back into a low ponytail. Clint says the first words that pop into his head.

"I feel like I know you from-" _oh._

Clint clears his throat awkwardly, fingers twitching on the rim of the glass. She's still staring at him, hard and unwavering, yet curious. Her eyes rake over him slowly, like she's taking in every single detail of his appearance - the old (and slightly tattered, _oops_ ) jeans, the leather jacket and the crinkled shirt underneath. It's like she's filing it all away, a thin smile on her lips, but whether it's from amusement or disapproval Clint doesn't know.

He takes a _really_ big sip of his drink, downing nearly all of it in a single mouthful. Clint swallows and ignores the burn at the back of his throat. Setting the glass back down, he holds his hand out stupidly for her to shake. She does, though she seems a little hesitant about it. The chipped red polish on her nails catches Clint's eyes. She lets go of his hand and smoothes down the front of her shirt; she's dressed in all black, except for the pale blue rag tucked into the belt loop of her jeans.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Wanda."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for all the love.


	15. Chapter 15

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Wanda**

* * *

WED 27 MAY

"You know," Clint begins, staring down at his drink. He runs his finger along the rim of the glass slowly. "For twins, you don't look _that_ similiar."

There's something like amusement in Wanda's eyes, when Clint glances up. She's still behind the bar, polishing glasses with the blue rag that was tied to her belt. Her smile is gradual, like maybe she's a little unsure of Clint but she's _slowly_ warming up to him. Setting the glass down, Wanda narrows her eyes at Clint. "We are identical. Of course we look similar."

"I didn't know that. That you were, you know. Identical."

Wanda tuts her tongue, shaking her head slowly. "I thought you knew everything about my brother. Did he tell you that he is 12 minutes older than me? He tells everyone. I am not sure why it makes him as happy as it does," she shrugs. "But he smiles, so I let him tease me about it all he likes."

"Yeah? I get that. He's got a nice smile," Clint says. "It's worth it. The teasing, the bad jokes, all of it. It's worth it just for that smile."

"It is worth it, most of the time."

"He's all blonde hair, blue eyes, arrogant. But he's not really blonde, is he? It's silver. And then you've got dark hair, pretty green eyes, and it's just - you're different. From each other. He's got this picture of you," Clint says, smiling. "The two of you, faces squished together, smiling. It was like yin and yang. First moment I saw it, I knew it was you. You say he's 12 minutes older? Doesn't seem like it. He seems so damn _young_ , and you're just like this old soul."

"Are you calling me old?"

"No, not - not _old_. Just different. To him. Wiser, maybe. I don't know."

"Yin and yang. I like that." Wanda says, picking up another glass to polish. She fixes Clint with another curious look. "What brings you here tonight?"

Clint looks back down at the drink in his hand. There isn't much bourbon left in the glass. Lifting it to his lips, he finishes off the rest in one mouthful. "Uh, my friend Pepper," he answers belatedly. "It's her birthday. She wanted something small. I didn't even know about this place until tonight. How long have you been here? Working here, I mean. Not just today."

"Three months or so."

"You live nearby?"

Wanda simply nods and sets the glass in her hands aside. "And you? Where do you live?"

"A few miles out. On a farm. He probably told you about that. Uh, anyway. I don't get out a lot, which is why I didn't even know this place existed until tonight. S'nice place." Clint answers, words a little slurred. "Yeah. Yeah, I hear how sad that sounds. Don't get out much. I don't get out at all, except when I'm falling off ladders. He tell you all about that too?"

"He mentioned it." Wanda nods. "It sounds like you had quite the fall."

"You think that's funny?" he asks, looking up at Wanda. Her mouth is twitching at the corners, like she's fighting a laugh. Clint barks out a laugh of his own, while she busies herself with the task of wiping down the bar. "I could've - hey, I almost _died_. I broke 3 fingers. Look," he holds up the bandaged hand, waving it slowly at her. "And you're still laughing. You got a sick sense of humour, kid."

Wanda nudges Clint's elbow, so she can wipe down the part of the bar he's been leaning against for the past half an hour. "It is serious, I know. Not something to make light of. When he told me, I laughed at first. It was from disbelief. Shock, I think. And then he was upset with me."

"He was upset with you? You didn't push me off the ladder."

"Pietro worries about you."

Clint shucks off his leather jacket and drapes it over the vacant stool to his left. "Yeah, I know he does, but I can take care of myself. I know it doesn't look like it right now, but catch me on a good day and there's none of this. No broken bones. No self-pity. I'm doing fine on my own, but it's nice that he worries. It's sweet."

"And what about his fondness towards you?" Wanda asks, still wiping down the polished wooden surface of the bar. She stops only to brush a strand of hair back off of her face, tucking it neatly behind her ear. "Do you also think that is something sweet and nice, and not something serious? I am sure that you know how he feels. You encourage him. I-"

"I encourage him?"

"Flirt. Tell him how pretty his smile is."

"He tells you that stuff?" Clint rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the color rise to his cheeks. "Why would he tell you that?"

Wanda shrugs, fixing her sharp green eyes back on Clint. "There is not much we do not know about each other. For as long as I can remember, it has been the two of us. Since we were children we have shared all of our secrets. We do not keep things hidden."

"Maybe there are _some_ things that you don't need to share. Maybe-"

"Like what?"

"Like the things I say to him."

Rolling her eyes, Wanda turns away from Clint, dropping low and out of sight to presumably fetch something from a lower shelf. "He does not tell me everything," she says, popping back up into Clint's line of sight. There's a spray bottle of what Clint assumes is a disinfectant of sorts in her hands. "Nothing like _that_."

"There hasn't been anything like - like _that_. Whatever you're implying. We haven't even met." _yet_.

Wanda sprays down a section of the bar, wiping a clean cloth over the surface. "There are certain things you do not have to meet for."

"You know," Clint smacks his lips together, shoving his empty glass in Wanda's direction. "I'm actually not drunk enough. I need to be way, _way_ more drunk before we have that conversation. Actually, I don't _ever_ want to have that talk with you. Can I just have something with alcohol in it? I'm not picky."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"It's not a bad one."

"You have already had a lot to drink."

"While we're on the subject of your brother," Clint says. "There's something I wanna say. So, you said that he's fond of me. Or whatever. Right? Here's the thing, kid, I'm just as crazy about him. Trust me. Whatever he feels, I feel. Maybe I don't say it enough. Maybe there's not much to say. Look, we just started talking like, a couple of weeks ago. It's - it's _nice_ , but it's new."

"He falls harder than most, though it might not seem like it. He cares."

"Makes two of us." Clint mumbles, stretching across the bar to reach for a bottle of whiskey. He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle, only to have Wanda's hand fly out and catch his by the wrist tightly. "One more. Just one."

"You should _not_ be doing that." Wanda says sternly.

"Thanks, but I can look after myself. I know when enough's enough."

"Let go of the bottle."

"Fine, but you first." Clint sighs."Your hand's keeping mine there, sweetheart."

Wanda rips her hand away, then pulls the bottle of amber liquid away and out of Clint's reach. "I will take you home," she says suddenly, brushing her hands down the front of her shirt, smoothing out the fabric. "Your friends will keep drinking, I am sure, but you have had enough for one night. I will be ready in 15 minutes."

"Sure, _mom_." Clint scoffs, sliding off the barstool. "Yeah. Curfew's soon, so we better get me home and tuck me in. Hey, you know, this whole time we've been talking tonight you haven't served anyone else except me. That makes you a pretty shitty bartender. You're supposed to be tending bar, not playing mom."

"You think _that_ is what I have been doing?"

"Isn't it?"

"I have been getting to know the man that my brother speaks so highly of."

Clint slips back into his leather jacket slowly. His fingers don't hurt, which is probably a good sign. Probably. He grips the edge of the bar when the entire room _shifts_ , ever so slightly. "Disappointed? I bet you are. I'm probably nothing like he said I'd be. Bet you're wondering if you met the wrong guy."

"You are exactly as he said you would be. Snarky, funny, not a bad looking man." Wanda says, a frown creasing her pale features. "He also said you would be like this. Talking like you are less than what you are. Less nice, less kind. Less of a good man."

"Maybe I am less. Maybe I-"

"Have had plenty to drink." Wanda interrupts. "And perhaps _that_ was not such a good idea. It does not make you less of anything."

Sighing, Clint sinks back down onto the stool, running a hand over his face. He's still a little dizzy, but he most just feels like shit - guilty, tired, embarrassed. The whole lot. He sneaks a quick glance up at Wanda, who actually does't look that mad. Or disappointed, like Clint had expected. She doesn't really look like _anything_ , really. Clint frowns.

"You've got a hell of a poker face."

"And you've got a lot to say."

"Not always. Apparently I'm a mouthy drunk. And a bit of a dick. Sorry," Clint drops his head into one hand, letting out another weary sigh. "I'm not always like this. I used to be fun. Talk less, drink more."

"The talking is not so bad," Wanda's mouth twitches at the corner again, like she's biting back a smile. "Well, it is not so bad when you at least have something _good_ to say. I'm curious. You have not asked once about my brother. Whether he is here, whether he _will_ be. Did you not want to see him?"

"I want to, yeah. More than anything. But he's not here."

"How do you know?"

"I've been here what, an hour? Almost two? He's hard to miss."

"Pietro _was_ here," she says, tugging the band out of her hair and smoothing her fingers through the kinks. "Earlier. Much earlier, before you arrived. And then you walked in. I think he noticed you the very first second you stepped inside. My brother is easily bored, always looking around, and then he saw you. His nerves got the better of him. I was not supposed to tell you."

Clint stands up abruptly, pushing the stool back. He glances around like he half expects Pietro to appear, and he can't deny that feeling of disappointment that rises in his chest when he can't spot the other man. "He was here? In the same room as me? And he didn't - why didn't he find me?"

"He found you, but you were talking with someone else. A friend."

"Who? Nat? She's harmless. Looks scary as shit, sometimes, but she wouldn't scare him off."

"It was the man in blue."

"What man in blue?" Clint frowns. "I don't know any - _oh_ , shit. Tony."

"You looked very friendly." Wanda says, her voice neutral but the implication is clear.

"We're not. Not what you're thinking. Tony's just like that. He's a flirt. Doesn't mean for a second that I was interested." he argues. "Even if Tony is, I'm not. I've spent the last, what, hour? The last hour talking all about your brother. That's gotta show you I'm not interested in him. If I was, I'd be over _there_ drinking. Not over here. But here I am, trying to get to know you. Trying to make a good impression on my - on my Pietro's sister."

"I know you have good intentions, which is why I did not throw you out on your ass. You have a good heart, Clint Barton."

* * *

THURS 28 MAY

Clint wakes with a stiff neck and a throbbing pain in his skull.

His blinks blearily, slowly adjusting to his surroundings: he didn't even make it upstairs. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Clint groans quietly, rubbing at the kink in his neck with his left hand. The couch is small, cramped, and incredibly uncomfortable. He's still in the same clothes from the night before, which reek of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

The sharp, stabbing sensation is only getting worse. Clint winces and digs his finces into his temple. It's only then that he notices the glass of water and advil on the table in front of him, next to a note with handwriting that he doesn't recognize. He leans closer, squinting at the chicken scratch writing. It's barely legible, but then again that could just be because Clint has only been awake for three whole minutes. He rubs at his tired eyes and leans a little closer.

 _perhaps you are not so bad after all. drink up. - W_

Clint picks up the note and turns it over, hoping to find some sort of explanation on the back of it, but there isn't one. Setting the piece of paper back down, Clint pats down his pockets and pulls out his phone, along with a crumpled packet of smokes that he doesn't remember buying. He stares down at all of the notifications on the lock screen, a little alarmed by the number of texts and missed calls.

 **(16) New Messages**

 **(5) Missed Calls**

 **(1) New Voicemail**

Starting with the missed calls, Clint works his way down the list slowly: most of them are from Tony, but there's one from Nat and another from Pietro. He skims through his messages next, ignoring most of Stark's (because really, it's mostly just Tony whining about how Clint left the party early without so much as a kiss goodbye). The four texts from Nat are mostly her explaining that Steve and co. got a little too drunk, hijacked her phone when she wasn't looking, and dialled Clint, which explains why the voicemail she left was nothing but fart noises and the sound of muffled laughter.

He sends off a quick reply to Nat, and doesn't even bother asking if she won the drinking contest against Bucky when they both know she did. He doesn't open the messages from Pietro just yet. For some reason, he always seems to leave them until the very end, like not opening them somehow means he's savouring them. There's a text from a contact saved under the name 'W' and Clint doesn't need to think too hard to work who that is. He opens that one first and types up a speedy reply.

 **[1:03AM]:**

 **I finally met the man that my brother speaks so highly of. He will be pleased to know that all you did was talk about him.**

[8:47AM]:

What can I say? There's a lot to talk about when it comes to your brother.

[8:50AM]:

Thanks for the advil. And I'm assuming the lift home.

 **[8:54AM]:**

 **It was no trouble.**

[9:04AM]:

You must live pretty close by then? Weird.

[9:05AM]:

I still can't wrap my head around it. Have you told him? Does he know about last night?

 **[9:08AM]:**

 **Yes, but he did not believe me at first. He thought I was teasing.**

[9:10AM]:

Should I talk to him?

[9:10AM]:

I should talk to him.

 **[9:14AM]:**

 **You two are just as bad as each other.**

Before he opens up Pietro's messages, Clint swallows the advil with a glass of water. He tugs off his leather jacket, toes off his shoes and runs a hand through his hair, hopefully smoothing down any spikey bits. It's no use though, he's still a mess, and he _still_ smells like an ashtray. Probably looks as shit as he feels. _At least this isn't a video call_ , Clint thinks, bringing up the single text from Pietro.

It's from much earlier this morning. Like 7AM early, when Clint was still very much passed out on his crappy old couch.

 _[7:15AM]:_

 _is it true?_

[9:18AM]:

That I'm devilishly handsome? Yeah, it's true.

 _[9:20AM]:_

 _clint  
_

[9:23AM]:

What? It's true.

[9:24AM]:

If you're asking about last night, then yes. It's true. Yes, I was at the bar last night. I also met Wanda and we had a lovely talk. And yes, my asshole friend Tony (who really is more of a distant, twice removed "friend" that doesn't really qualify as a friend) was there. And he needs to flirt like he needs oil, or fuel, or whatever the hell it is they use to keep robots alive.

[9:30AM]:

Because he's a robot. Oxygen doesn't do the job.

 _[9:34AM]:_

 _but he likes you? i saw it in the way he spoke to you_

[9:38AM]:

Tony likes everyone.

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _it was obvious_

[9:42AM]:

What was?

 _[9:47AM]:_

 _he like likes you clint_

[9:49AM]:

What, are we in school? Did I tick yes on the note he passed me?

 _[9:52AM]:_

 _?_

 _[9:56AM]:_

 _he gave you a note?_

[9:59AM]:

No, he didn't. It's just an expression. Don't worry, not important.

[10:02AM]:

What's important is I like you, not him.

[10:05AM]:

I keep kicking myself over last night. We almost met. I almost saw you. And you saw me, didn't you? It's just bugging me.

 _[10:08AM]:_

 _did you have a drink for me?_

[10:10AM]:

Oh, yeah. I had many drinks. I'm sure Wanda told you that already.

 _[10:13AM]:_

 _she did_

 _[10:16AM]:_

 _i have a question_

[10:20AM]:

Yes, I really am as handsome as I am charming.

[10:24AM]:

That's not the question, is it?

 _[10:30AM]:_

 _were you with tony_

[10:32AM]:

Yeah? He was there last night, you know that already.

 _[10:34AM]:_

 _i meant like with as in a couple together  
_

 _[10:35AM]:_

 _last night you said that this tony was not the easiest person to be with_

 _[10:38AM]:_

 _you have been with him? is that how you know  
_

[10:40AM]:

It was a long time ago. Years, actually.

 _[10:42AM]:_

 _we never talk about this_

[10:45AM]:

There's not much to tell. It happened, it ended, that's it. We were never a couple.

[10:48AM]:

I did what I always do and I messed it up, though I guess I wasn't alone in that. He helped fuck it up. We weren't a couple. It was right before I met Laura. I guess I was looking for something serious, and then I met Tony. If you ever meet Tony then you'll know he's the complete opposite of serious. Can't take relationships seriously. He freaked out at the very hint of commitment. Left without even telling me. I'd never tell him, but I hated him for it.

[10:49AM]:

It was the right decision, I see that now. We wouldn't have lasted. We didn't work, but I still hated him. I don't anymore. Broke my damn heart.

[10:49AM]:

I wanted something stable and he just wanted somebody to warm his bed, which I should've known. I was his friend before anything happened and I knew what he was like, but even that didn't stop me. Nat's the only person that really knows what happened, but I guess you know now too. That's the story. I made a fool of myself.

 _[10:53AM]:_

 _you did something brave_

[10:56AM]:

Really? I don't see it that way. It was dumb. A rookie error. I knew what he wanted and I still kept hoping it'd be more than what it was.

 _[10:58AM]:_

 _is that why you are how you are with me_

[11:03AM]:

And how exactly am I with you?

 _[11:05AM]:_

 _distant sometimes like you are pulling away from me_

 _[11:07AM]:_

 _like perhaps you do not wish to be yourself this time because he hurt you and it was unpleasant for you_

[11:10AM]:

Unpleasant? Yeah, that's a word for it.

 _[11:13AM]:_

 _what word would you use for it?_

[11:15AM]:

Awful. Bad. Mistake. Fucking shit. Any of those will do.

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _and you do not want to make that awful bad mistake again i understand_

 _[11:20AM]:_

 _but i am not tony_

[11:23AM]:

Tony's the Tin Man, except he never got his heart.

 _[11:27AM]:_

 _are you my cowardly lion then? too afraid to take a chance on me_

[11:30AM]:

Hah. Yeah, right. I'm the lion. Does that make you Dorothy, or the Scarecrow?

 _[11:32AM]:_

 _i thought tony was a robot, not a tin man?_

[11:35AM]:

He's a cyborg. A robot. They didn't update his software to give him real feelings yet.

[11:40AM]:

Tony's actually not that bad. He's still a dick, but I knew what I was getting myself into when I got involved with him.

[11:41AM]:

I don't want to tak about this anymore.

[11:43AM]:

Can I call you, or Skype you? Because this is driving me insane. I hate not being able to hear you or see you. I hate that I didn't get to touch you. To hold your hand. Touch your face. I just want to talk to you. Right now, it feels like you're miles away and I'll take anything I can get. I have to hear your voice. Please? You just keep getting further out of reach.

 _[11:46AM]:_

 _yes we can talk. always._

 _[11:46AM]:_

 _i wont go anywhere i want to be right here  
_

* * *

 **A/N:** personally i love tony and think he has the biggest heart. but for the sake of this AU, his history with clint has to be a little bit sad, but that doesn't make me love him any less. oh and i'm a firm believer that pietro is the type of guy that introduces himself like this:

"hi, pietro maximoff, the older twin by 12 whole minutes"

as a twin myself, trust me when i say the gloating is real and it very much happens.  
 _  
_


	16. Chapter 16

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

THURS 28 MAY

Clint pulls back the comforter and climbs into bed, pointedly ignoring Lucky's unwavering gaze. He props his laptop up on a pillow, drags that into his lap, and waits for the Skype video call to connect. There's a freshly brewed cup of coffee on the nightstand to his right, and a packet of advil in the drawer. Apart from the soft light slipping in through the cracks in the curtains, and the harsh light coming from his laptop screen, the entire room is dark, dulled down to the point that it almost feels like night-time.

Except it isn't.

The clock on Clint's laptop reads 12:37PM.

It's still bright outside. Clint runs a hand through his hair, which is still slightly damp from the shower he took earlier, and leans back against the headboard. Yeah, maybe it is a little too early in the day to be in bed, and _yes_ , Pietro is going to tell so many shitty jokes, but Clint really doesn't care. He just doesn't. His neck is stiff, his fingers broken and bound, and, after last night, he just feels like sulking for a few hours.

Clint isn't sure if Lucky's here to join him, or to judge him. He just keeps staring at Clint, as dogs often do, but this time feels different. Sighing, Clint pats the empty spot on the bed next to him. Lucky doesn't budge, at first. Then he does, and he practically catapults himself up onto the bed, settling in against Clint happily.

"Just one of those days, isn't it, boy?" Clint murmurs, carding a hand through Lucky's fur. He scratches behind his ear fondly, glancing back at the laptop.

There's a little static on the screen, at first, as the call connects. Clint braces himself for it; the jokes, the teasing, _all_ of it. Then the call connects, and apparently he isn't the only one that felt like spending the day in bed. Clint feels a small smile tugging at his lips. The sight before him makes his heart swell. There's something about it that makes Clint think of home.

Pietro's on his side, an arm propped up under his head for support. He fixes Clint with a sleepy smile. There are at least a dozen pillows behind him, each varying in size, shape and colour. One has frills, and one even looks like a shaggy dog. His bed is cramped and narrow, compared to Clint's king size. But then again, it could just look smaller because Pietro is in it - he is rather, well, _big_ , with his long legs and his broad shoulders. He's not small by any means, so he would probably even make Clint's bed seem small, which isn't something Clint thinks about, really.

He glances up at Pietro, dragging his eyes away from the _many_ pillows, he notices that the other man is watching him curiously, like maybe Clint said something strange. Really, it's in his nature to screw up and say something dumb when he's like this - jittery, on edge. Clint wets his lips _,_ watching blankly as Pietro taps at the laptop screen. He can go ahead and add that to the list of Cute Things Pietro Does.

 _"Hello? Earth to Agent Barton?"_

Clint laughs, despite himself. It's all he can do. He reaches for the coffee on the nightstand and takes a _very_ large sip of it. "Sorry," he offers weakly, in between sips. "I was somewhere else." it isn't a lie, not really. He _was_ somewhere else, distratced by the thought of Pietro and his unfairly long limbs, and his muscular shoulders. "I don't know where I was."

" _Ah, there he is,"_ Pietro says, smiling brightly. _"My lion."_

"Yeah, you might want to go with a different nickname." Clint answers, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. "I've seen that episode. If I'm the lion, that makes you Shae, and you don't really want to be Shae, trust me. I don't really want to be Tyrion either. Dude has it tough. Killed his girl, who was screwing his father. I mean if I _had_ to die, then I'd like to go out like Oberyn. Brutal, but memorable, you know? Way cooler than dying on the toilet."

Pietro says nothing, just blinks at the screen, apparently quite taken with Clint's ramblings.

In this light, Pietro's skin looks like porcelain and Clint has the inexplicable urge to touch him, just to see if he's real. Sometimes he doesn't know what would be worse: that it's not real and it's just a _very_ elaborate, very nice dream, or that it's real and he's going to lose it. In this light, Pietro's eyes are paler, but no less piercing. His hair looks a little darker underneath (only the roots) and Clint wonders if he really does dye it. The top is pale blonde, like always, and long strands of it keep falling across Pietro's face and into his eyes.

Clint doesn't realize that he's outright staring until he _finally_ focuses back in on Pietro, and sees him madly throwing his hands about in the air. He's sitting up now, no longer lounging on his side, and he's waving his hands _everywhere_ , sporting a rather annoyed look. Clint wets his lips and does the only reasonable thing he can do: pretends he was listening all along.

"Oh, yeah. Mhmm." he says, nodding belatedly. "Yup. I'm with you on that, buddy."

 _"You are?"_

"I'm hurt you even have to ask. Of course I'm with you."

 _"This is strange,"_ Pietro muses. _"Since I said you were an idiot. Are you still with me now?"_

"Hey, all couples have their differences. Maybe this is just ours," Clint offers, shrugging weakly with one shoulder. "I can be an idiot. We can move past it. It's not the worst thing in the world, is it? Hey, so about that whole nickname thing, maybe you could think of something else? I don't really want to-"

 _"Shhh."_ Pietro holds his hands up to his ears, like he's seconds away from shoving his fingers in there and blocking out Clint's voice. _"Shh. Just-stop."_

"Did you just shush me?"

" _Yes_."

"Why are you shushing me?"

 _"Because you will spoil all of it for me. More than you already have._ "

"Oh. Oh, shit. You watch Game of Thrones?" Clint asks, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. He sets the mug back down on the nightstand, then returns to his laptop, sinking back into the pillows a little more. "I didn't realize that was something you watched."

Pietro cranes his head to the side curiously. _"Why not? Everyone watches it."_

"Not after this season, they won't."

 _"There you go again."_

"What? I didn't even _say_ anything."

 _"You are ruining this for me."_

"That's not even a spoiler," Clint argues. "It's more of an opinion."

 _"It is still a spoiler."_ Pietro huffs, dropping his hands into his lap rather dramatically. He's smiling warily, like he _wants_ to be annoyed at Clint, but his heart isn't in it. _"It is nice to hear you and see you. Like you said, it felt like we were growing apart. This is nice. This is something I get that no one else can have, not Wanda, not your Tony."_

"He's-no." Clint says, taken aback by the possessive edge to Pietro's words. "He's not my Tony."

 _"But he was."_

"That was a long time ago."

Clint studies Pietro closely, for a moment, watching the way his eyes flicker around, unable to settle on anything for too long. He almost looks nervous, _almost_ , because he's suddenly smiling again and there's a hint of cockiness in it that Clint's pretty familiar with. It actually makes Clint a little nervous - uneasy, actually. Makes him get all jittery again, just like the first time.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

 _"I remembered something."_

"Sharing is caring."

 _"It was about last night. Something that Wanda told me you said."_

"Lots of things were said," Clint says, fidgeting with his hands. He reaches over and runs a hand through Lucky's hair, smoothing down the soft fur near his collar. "Whether I meant them, or even remember them, is a completely different story. But go ahead," he nods at the screen, encouarging Pietro. "I wanna hear what I said."

 _"You were talking about me with my sister,"_ Pietro begins, ducking his head shyly. _"And you said 'my Pietro' to her. Like I was yours."_

"Oh." Clint says, and for a moment that's all he can muster. His mouth suddenly feels incredibly dry. Somehow, he manages to splutter out a few more words, but they might be a little too mangled and hurried for Pietro to make sense of. "But you're not, you know. Mine. You're not mine. I was pretty drunk. "

Pietro still isn't looking up at him. Instead, he's studying his hands closely, and Clint feels an immediate pang of regret. Clearing his throat, Clint leans a little closer to the laptop, angling the camera so it's pointed more at his face.

"Do you want to be?"

 _"What?"_

"You heard me."

 _"Do I want to be pretty drunk?"_

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking." Clint says, laughing softly. The sound seems to draw Pietro out of his shell a little, pulling his attention (and his gorgeous blue eyes) back to the screen. He blinks. Once, twice. It reminds Clint of an owl. "The bar's open, right? Let's get drunk. That's a good idea."

 _"I know what you are asking me, but I want you to say it again. Properly."_ he says, then quickly adds, _"Nicely."_

Clint scoffs, shaking his head. "Hey, I'm nice. I can be nice."

 _"Then be nice."_

"Alright, fine. Will you be my lion?"

Pietro rolls his eyes and flops back onto the bed dramatically, almost disappearing completely in the pile of pillows. _"You are never serious. Always making jokes, old man. Is now a bad time for you to be serious? Should I come back next week, or the week after that one? Tell me when you are ready to have this conversation."_

"You look ridiculous. You know that, don't you?" Clint teases.

Though he's not really sure who he's talking to, since Pietro's face isn't actually visible anymore. From the torso down, Clint can see, but nothing above the neck. The sea of pillows swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but a narrow waist, and a pair of ridiculously long legs. There's movement, but it's just Pietro kicking the blankets off; how he manages to do so _without_ kicking the laptop off of the bed, Clint doesn't know. He's actually a little impressed.

Pietro sits up and fixes Clint with a crooked smile. His hair is askew, and his jacket has ridden up above the waistline of his pants. Clint can't drag his eyes away from that stretch of pale skin. And then Pietro speaks and Clint averts his eyes immediately, looking anywhere but directly at him. He looks at the picture frames on the wall above Pietro's bed, but he can't make out the faces. He studies the patterns on a pillow. The fabric of Pietro's track jacket; it's dark, with white stripes running down the length of each bulky arm.

 _"Is that why you are staring at me,"_ Pietro asks. _"Because I look ridiculous?"_

"What, you don't hear that a lot?"

 _"That I look ridiculous? No, not often."_

"No? Alright. Well, what about ridiculously attractive? I bet you get that a lot," Clint says, and Pietro actually _blushes_. It's barely even noticeable, a faint coloring to his cheeks that wasn't there a moment ago. "So, there was something I wanted to ask you. Nicely."

 _"This should be interesting."_ Pietro murmurs, cheeks still tinged pink. _"Go on. Ask."  
_

"Would you like to go out sometime?"

 _"I have already been out."_

"Forget it."

And then Pietro pouts, and Clint suddenly doesn't want to forget about it. He doesn't want to forget any of it. He grips the laptop screen with both hands, like he's somehow closer to Pietro, like it's some sort of gesture of _wanting_ to be closer. Clint clears his throat pointedly, watching Pietro's pout disappear, his lips twitching up into a tentative smile.

"Listen," Clint begins. "I'm not so good at this. At the talking side of things. I just know that I'd like to take you out sometime. Maybe dinner, a movie, whatever. Get to know you. Actually meet you, and not your sister, because as fun as that was I'd still really like to meet you."

 _"I would also like this."_ Pietro chimes in, a beat later.

He's watching Clint in that way of his: focused, intense, yet never unwelcome. Clint shifts a little, acutely aware of how, well, undressed he is. Compared to Pietro, he's basically wearing nothing at all; a pair of checkered pajama bottoms and a pale grey tank top. And then there's Pietro, who is pretty bundled up in dark sweatpants and a matching jacket.

"Yeah?"

Pietro smiles softly. _"Yes, very much."_ he says, and then a look of amusement crosses his face. _"Are you in bed with your dog?"_

"That sounds a little judgy for someone who cuddles up with their kitten at night." Clint retorts, but there's no punch to it, no sharpness.

 _"She is warm and soft, and I have nothing else to cuddle up against."_ Pietro says, shrugging easily. He tugs at the zipper on his jacket until it's all the way down, revealing a navy blue t-shirt underneath. He slips the jacket off, and drops it somewhere off camera (presumably somewhere on the floor, which makes Clint wonder what the rest of his room looks like right now).

"Yeah?" Clint says belatedly. "Something tells me you'll live."

 _"It is cold of a night."_

Clint smiles, content to watch as Pietro climbs up off the bed, picking the laptop up carefully in his hands. He walks around the room slowly. There isn't much to see, not with the way Pietro's holding the laptop so close to his chest, angled up towards his face and away from his bedroom. The walls are mostly bare, from what Clint can see, apart from the photo frames hanging just above his bed.

 _"You do not look so cold today, Clint."_

"That's because I'm not."

 _"What do you think of my bedroom?"_

"Show me," Clint says. "And I'll let you know."

Pietro turns the laptop away from himself, giving Clint a proper view of his room. If he's being entirely honest, Clint doesn't really remember _that_ much about Pietro's bedroom from their very first call. He was a little distracted, to say the least. Mind wandering elsewhere and all that. But now, Pietro's giving him the grand tour, and Clint has the time to take it all in, to _really_ commit it to memory.

He shows Clint the bed first, naturally.

There are an assortment of pillows piled up near the wrought iron headboard, and a crimson colored blanket hanging off the end of the mattress (from when Pietro kicked it off in an adorable fit of frustration). The blanket is soft looking, possibly even velvet, and there's a kitten curled up underneath it, where the blanket hangs off the end of the bed, creating a canopy for the tiny creature.

Clint smiles, watching as the little kitten burrows in deeper, blinking slowly at Clint. "Snowball's hiding under there," he says, and he swears the cat gives him a scathing look, like he just blew her hiding spot, or something. "Under that blanket. Just thought you should know, before shit gets tragic and you step on her with your giant feet."

 _"She likes to be close to me,"_ Pietro replies, still out of sight. _"To be close to my things. But that is Wanda's blanket, a gift to me."_

"It's a nice blanket."

 _"What did you say about my feet?"_

It's a strange thing, hearing Pietro's voice and not seeing his face. Clint's almost certain that Pietro's smiling, he can hear it in his voice. "I said you had giant feet, and if you weren't careful then we'd have a tragedy on our hands. Or, in this case, on _your_ fe-"

 _"My feet are perfectly normal in size."_ Pietro interrupts, sounding rather unamused. He angles the camera down to show Clint, like he's somehow offended by the implication that his feet are disproportionate to the rest of his body. He angles the laptop downwards, giving Clint a prolonged shot of his socked feet, which are actually quite large - not giant sized, or clownlike, but still big.

"I was wrong. They're _tiny_."

The camera spins around so quickly that Clint feels a little dizzy, but that could still be the hangover having its fun with him. Pietro's face appears on the screen a second later. _Finally_ , Clint thinks, unable to keep the smirk off of his face. It almost looks like Pietro's going to smile, until he doesn't, his eyebrows still raised at Clint like he's waiting him out. For what, Clint doesn't know. He only knows that Pietro looks cute when he's mad, and that's a good enough reason to keep on teasing him.

"Can't win with you, can I? You don't want giant feet, or tiny ones." Clint says, shaking his head. "I just can't win."

 _"Shut up and look at the rest of my room."_ Pietro instructs, disappearing once more.

He takes Clint around the rest of his room slowly, pointing out things that he deems important enough to share (like the scented candles that Wanda makes, he has at least a dozen of those scattered across his room, on various shelves and desks. Next, he shows Clint his favorite books, then a photograph of his parents). Clint asks questions and chimes in, when appropriate. When it feels like he isn't intruding on a memory.

There's a lot of blue, Clint notices. The walls are a pale shade of blue, while the curtains hanging on either side of the window directly across from Pietro's bed are navy, and when the camera inches closer, Clint notices the silver stars and moons embroided into the sheer fabric. Wanda makes curtains too, apparently, and she's actually pretty damn good at it.

Pietro sets the laptop down on a desk and drops down into the chair in front of it. He reaches forward and adjusts the angle of the camera, fixing it so it's pointed more at him, rather than the rest of his room. _"So? What do you think?"_ he asks, bouncing his right leg up and down, and Clint can't tell if it's because he's impatient, or nervous.

"It's not what I expected."

 _"In what way?"_

"There's less stuff, I guess." Clint replies. "Looks like you're moving out, or you just moved in."

 _"Home is home. We do not have much, but we only need each other."_

Clint nods along. "You're good kids. Both of you. Family's all you need, and you've got that. You're good to each other."

It's quiet for a moment, but not uncomfortable. There's music playing in the background, but Clint can't make out the tune. Pietro looks lost in thought, like he's remembering something - good or bad, Clint doesn't know. His stare is far off and wistful, too old to be in the eyes of someone so young. A part of Clint wants to ask, wants to know anything Pietro's willing to share, but he doesn't ask, and Pietro doesn't tell. Clint can't blame him. There are certain memories better left undisturbed.

 _"There was one more thing,"_ Pietro announces suddenly. _"That I wanted to show you."_

"Yeah? I'd love to see."

Pietro hooks his fingers underneath the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and over his head, and _that_ really wasn't what Clint was expecting when Pietro said he had something to share with him. Clint swallows, his mouth suddenly too dry. The navy shirt is bunched up in Pietro's hands now, and Clint admittedly finds it a little difficult _not_ to openly stare at his bare chest.

He's big.

That's the first word that comes to Clint's mind.

After that, there are no more words, and Clint finds himself a little distracted. Pietro's shoulders are impossibly broad, and his stomach far more toned than Clint expected. His arms are bulky and muscular, and when he shifts in the chair, turning away from Clint, the muscles in his back ripple from the movement.

"Uh," Clint begins, wetting his lips. "What are you doing? Why are you doing _that_?"

 _"I said I had something to show you."_

"So you're showing me your muscles."

"No," Pietro says, with a sigh. He's half turned towards Clint, neck craned in the direction of the laptop. "It is something else. Do you remember when we spoke of your scar, and I think you wanted to cover it up from me? Your scar?"

"Yeah." Clint nods. "What about it?"

 _"I will show you mine."_

Clint opens his mouth to protest, because that's _really_ not necessary. He doesn't expect Pietro to do that. Doesn't want him to, just because Clint did. But then Pietro's back is facing him suddenly, and it doesn't take long for Clint to see it. The narrow, winding scar runs horizontally across his skin, beginning near his spine and continuing just below his ribs, stretching jaggedly across the lower section of his back.

It disappears somewhere around his left hip, and when Pietro slowly turns back towards the laptop, Clint sees where the old scar curls around his hip, disappearing beneath the waistline of his pants. There's something tentative about the way that Pietro slips back into his shirt. He still doesn't look away from the camera, even if he wants to.

"You didn't have to do that, Pietro." Clint says gently, chest strangely tight.

 _"I know, but I wanted to."_

"Why?"

 _"To show you that we all have them,"_ Pietro replies. _"And there is nothing to be ashamed of."_

Without thinking, Clint lifts his hand to the screen, tracing Pietro's outline (like he remembers Pietro doing, like it's supposed to make him feel better about his scar, about showing that side of himself to Clint). Clint knows it's a weak gesture, but hopes that Pietro feels differently. He remembers the surge of warmth that hit him, when he saw Pietro touch the screen like he was touching Clint instead.

"You're right, we all have them. I need to get over myself." Clint says lightly, a soft smile gracing his lips. He's got a million questions, but there's no rush. There's only _one_ thing he needs an answer to. "I still want to ask you something, if that's ok with you."

Pietro nods, giving a small incline of his head. _"Go ahead."_

"I want to do this right. Well, as right as I can, considering the way we met. So, first thing's first, I guess. Would you like to go out sometime?" he asks, and he's really not that surprised by the way that Pietro rolls his eyes, because they've already had this conversation. "I know, I _know_. You've already been out, but here's the thing - and I already told your sister this - I'm crazy about you. And I'd like to date you."

* * *

 **A/N:** And in case I don't update before then, Merry Christmas!


	17. Chapter 17

Clint | _Pietro_

THURS 28 MAY

* * *

There's a moment - a stretched out, tortuous moment - where Pietro says nothing, and Clint doubts _everything_.

It bothers him that Pietro looks so unsure, like maybe this is another one of Clint's jokes that he doesn't really get. His face is all pinched up like he's still waiting for the punchline. Clint swallows over the lump lodged in his throat, and blinks twice at the screen.

Warmth rises to Clint's cheeks, coloring his neck, as the seconds tick by.

A part of Clint wonders if he made the entire romance (relationship? he doesn't know which category they fall into) up in his head. It seems likely, if Pietro's current expression is anything to go by. He doesn't exactly look thrilled at the idea of dating Clint. And then the rational, somewhat more reasonable, part of his brain kicks in and Clint remembers.

He _remembers_.

It's like a sickly sweet montage out of one of those rom-coms that Sam keeps sending him links to. Clint remembers all of it: bad jokes, 3AM phone calls, movie dates. The first time Clint saw Pietro actually smile, and not just in a photo (sure, Skype's not "real" life, but it was real enough for Clint in that moment). That stupid dare that Clint's pretty sure he's losing. Pietro's atrocious bed hair.

That infamous drunken phone call that Clint never managed to live down.

Or remember, for that matter. And now he does, and Clint feels stunned, like a light bulb has just flicked _on_ in his brain.

Clint drops his hand away from the screen, visibly reluctant to do so. Sure, he's not actually touching Pietro - not in a real way, not in a way that counts - but this, this small gesture, it feels like a bridge between them, somehow linking them together. There's an odd ache in Clint's chest as his hand slides away, a sharp pang that rears up from the sudden separation.

"Sometimes I forget." Clint says, and almost irritates _himself_ with how vague the words are. Pietro simply raises his eyebrows, curiousity winning out over uncertainty. "I forget how attached I am to you. We talk from the moment I wake up, until the moment I go to sleep. That's a _lot_ of time."

The shift in Pietro's expression is instant, and hard to miss. The look of hesitance is gone for now, replaced by something warm and _fond_ , but still a little guarded. Clint can't blame him for that, really. Not with the way he's screwed things up in the past.

Either out of a need to do something, or a desire to distract himself, Clint reaches for the coffee on the nightstand. It's probably cold by now, but he still curls his fingers around the ceramic handle. His suspicions are confirmed when he sips at the dark liquid, nose wrinkling in distaste. It's not that he _hates_ cold coffee, but it isn't his favorite beverage. Still, he suffers through it, like he has in the past whenever Pietro's involved and Clint doesn't have the heart to leave him to brew a fresh pot.

"So, this is the part where you say something." Clint suggests. "Or not. There's no pressure. Just think about it. Sit on it."

 _"Why would I sit on it?"_

"It's an expression, babe. That's all."

 _"There is something I would like to know."_ Pietro admits. _"If you would be honest with me."_

"Anything." Clint says. "Just ask and I'll tell you."

That, for some reason, seems to catch Pietro off guard. Clint's not sure why that is - or maybe that's bullshit, and he knows _exactly_ why Pietro's being as hesitant as he is. It's not like Clint's given him much to work with, in the past. He hasn't been a shining example of a person who _shares_ , instead opting to deflect with jokes and sarcasm.

Still, this is different.

Pietro isn't just anybody, and Clint hopes he knows that.

 _"Is this what you want?"_ he asks, a beat later, startling Clint. _"And not just because I want it, or because you think you should."_

"What?" Clint asks, and frowns. His mouth opens and shuts, his forehead creases, and all he can do is blink dumbly at Pietro's face. His ridiculously attractive, carved-from-marble face. "Wha - why would you ask that? What does - what does that even mean?"

 _"I just want you to be sure, Clint. Think about it."_

"Oh, I have. Trust me. I've thought about it more than you know," Clint admits. "And apparently this isn't the first time I've asked."

Pietro slumps back in the tall leather office chair; all long, delicate limbs, and a sharp grin that makes Clint a little nervous. _"So now he remembers."_ he murmurs, gently swinging from side to side, as if he were sitting in a tire swing. _"You did not confess your undying love, but when we spoke that night you were drunk. Honest. You asked me to dinner."  
_

"Why not tell me?"

 _"I - it felt strange. You had been drinking,"_ he says. _"And then you had no memory of it."_

"This is what you've been holding out on me."

And then Pietro makes a noise, something torn between a scoff and a laugh. He sounds nervous, voice slightly strained, and it's only then that Clint notices the faint color to Pietro's cheeks; the same rosy shade that had crept up Clint's skin minutes earlier.

 _"What would I say? You did not mention it again, after that call. I thought you had changed your mind. That you were not interested."_ Pietro's still smiling, but it's not as sharp, and all-knowing as it was a moment ago. It's coy, and embarrassed, and Clint's never seen that emotion on Pietro before. He's usually so cocky and confident, self-assured in a way that Clint doesn't remember being at that age.

"Oh."

 _"Perhaps it was the alcohol talking."_

"That night? Yeah, maybe it was. But I'm not drunk today."

 _"No, only hungover."_

Clint nods, because _yes_ , he's still feeling a little grimey from the previous night's activities. "Fair point. That doesn't change how I feel, or what I'm saying. What I'm asking of you. The offer still stands. I'd like to take you out sometime."

That same look of hesitation returns, and Clint wishes he could erase the doubt, make it go away for good. It's brief, but _still_. Still, it gnaws away at Clint. And then Pietro smiles, and it's everything Clint was hoping for. He's practically _beaming_ at the camera, and, even though Clint's on the other side of the screen, he swears he can feel the warmth of it. Pietro's eyes are sparkling, and Clint's not sure if he's ever going to able to adjust to that.

He might have to make an exception though, since he's pretty fond of Pietro, and used to having those blue eyes around.

 _"Then we will date."_ Pietro says, and lifts his hand to trace Clint's outline on his side of the screen. _"This is what I want, and it is better that you are not drunk this time. It makes me happy. Like you do need to drink to work up the nerve, and perhaps you want this as much as I do."  
_

At first, Clint just nods and stares mutely at the screen, his hands balling into fists in the fabric of his boxer shorts. The idea that Pietro felt, well, _unwanted_ makes Clint feel pretty awful. After all, he was the one that pursued Pietro, whether he remembers it clearly or not; parts of it have come back to Clint though, and he can actually _hear_ himself asking Pietro out, words slurred so badly that the memory is enough to make Clint cringe.

"Hey, listen." Clint begins. "You were never just _that_ person. That go-to person when you're drunk. I don't remember much of that talk, but I know I asked you out. I remember that." he pauses. Uncurls his hands, and touches the screen where Pietro's hand is pressing up against. "But you know I would've said something, right? If I remembered. I wouldn't let you think that I was embarrassed, or - or ashamed. I'm not."

 _"I know that now,"_ Pietro says, then sweetly adds, _"Babe."_

"What, you don't like it?"

 _"I like it."_

Clint smoothes his thumb over the screen. "Yeah? Good. It's staying."

 _"So?"_ Pietro asks, and drops his hand away from the screen. He starts swinging in his chair again, side to side. Clint bets that he isn't very familiar with the concept of sitting still for long periods of time. _"What do I call you? I think you will not like most of them."_

"Them? So you've thought about this." Clint smirks, amused.

 _"Only a little. I think I will also call you 'babe' as you call me, or perhaps 'boyfriend' if that suits you."_

"Yeah. Yeah, that's a _good_ fit. It's fine with me, babe." he says, testing the pet name out on his tongue; it's almost unsettling, how natural it feels to use it now, after all this time. "Good."

Clint's fairly confident that he's _not_ imagining the slight blush coloring Pietro's skin once more. And he's also certain that Pietro can probably _hear_ the way his heart racing; the way it hammers against his chest, speeding up at something as little as a glance, or a suggestion. Clint's in _deep_. Like, thinking about Pietro while he's _talking_ to Pietro deep. Yeah, he's pretty much screwed.

In all the best ways, of course.

 _"Will you tell me what you were thinking about?"_ Pietro asks, stirring Clint from his inner musings. _"Or do I have to guess like this is game?"_

"I get the feeling you like games."

Pietro huffs, and drums his fingers along the arms of the office chair impatiently, before huffing out yet _another_ sigh. _"You said that you thought about it. Did you mean us?"_ he asks, and continues when Clint answers with a single nod. _"It felt like I was a bother, at times. And you did not like talking to me very much, but then you did not like talking to anyone very much, I think. Still, I would think about it."_

"Yeah, I was a dick." Clint manages, feeling more than a little guilty. "Don't take it to heart. I wasn't in the best place."

 _"Well, it is your lucky day then,"_ Pietro says, and waves Clint off. _"Because I do not take these things personally. Actually, I think more about the good times. There have been plenty of those, yes? Like all of those bad movies we watch together."_

"Bad movies you picked out."

 _"You let me pick them."_

"How could I say no to that face?"

Pietro combs a hand through his hair, threading through the long, tangled strands, and Clint finds himself strangely fascinated by the movement. It takes Clint a moment to catch up with the words coming out of Pietro's mouth.

 _"I wanted to ask, but you were always so,"_ he makes a noise, then gestures vaguely with his hands. _"Hard to read. It felt like it was never a good time. I thought you would say no - even to this face - or that you would laugh, so I said nothing. Wanda still bothered me about it."_

"Hey, I'd never laugh. Not at something like that." Clint says. "I wouldn't."

 _"But you would say no to me?"_

"Yeah, I would've. A week ago? Maybe. Two weeks? Definitely. I would've said no. No, you can't be serious. No, you're too young. No, you don't know what you're getting yourself into." the words tumble out of Clint's mouth easily. He doesn't try to stop them. Instead, he moves so he's sitting cross-legged on the bed and drags the laptop up into his lap. "I'm glad you didn't ask, 'cause I would've screwed up and said no."

And then Pietro rolls his eyes. Clint's not sure if he should be offended, or amused. He's mostly stung by it, seeing as he actually put himself out there, for once (honest, open, like Pietro kept asking him to be). There's a hint of annoyance lurking underneath Pietro's smile, and Clint probably deserves that. He earnt it with that ' _you're too young_ ' comment.

"You're not a kid, I know. I'm not saying that."

 _"Then what are you saying?"_

"I'm still older than you. There's a gap."

 _"I am not having this conversation again."_ Pietro says, and sighs like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Clint's quietly concerned by how much they already sound like an old married couple, bickering about something mundane like laundry, or dishes. _"I will hear no more of this old man nonsense."_

"Fine by me." Clint shrugs.

 _"Only I can call you old man."_

"I thought we weren't having this conversation?"

 _"We aren't."_

"My point's still perfectly valid." he argues, because even though Pietro's still definitely not having this conversation, Clint still wants to. "There's a gap, even if it doesn't feel like there is. There's a few years between us, so I just want you to be sure. Hey, it's _still_ a valid point, even if you roll your eyes and pull faces at the camera like that. Oh, yeah, That one's _real_ attractive. Mature."

Pietro flips him off, and maybe Clint deserves that.

Apparently he's still quite fascinated with the office chair: his legs are tucked up now, and he's sitting cross-legged just like Clint is. Sometimes, they do this, and Clint's not sure whether it's accidental, or if Pietro's deliberately trying to mimic Clint's movements. Either way, he doesn't really care _that_ much. It's almost sweet, the way they mirror each other, and on Clint's part it's unintentional.

 _"You are what, 47? 49? That is not so old."_

"There it is."

 _"I thought you liked jokes."_

"Yeah, I do. Especially when they're made at my expense." Clint smirks. "And I'm not pushing 50, _brat_. I'm 34."

 _"See?"_ Pietro says. _"That is not so bad. You are always so dramatic about these things."_

"Dramatic? I'm almost 10 years older than you."

Pietro gives Clint a _look_ (he doesn't know how to explain it much further beyond that. He's just familiar with these sorts of looks) and rises up from the office chair, scooping the laptop off the desk and moving back to the bed in one swift movement.

He settles in against the pillows once more, and drags the laptop up onto his knees. There's a long pause before he finally answers Clint, and it's already obviously that he's _really_ not having this argument again.

 _"You think this bothers me? It doesn't, not like it bothers you._ _"_

"Hey," Clint softly begins, leaning in closer. "It doesn't bother me. I just wanted to make sure _you_ were fine with it. Now that we've got that out of the way, we can talk about other things. Like where you want to go for our first date. I'm free tonight," he says, and holds up his bandaged hand, an afterthought. "So we can throw a few ideas around. I'm free tomorrow night, and the night after that. We'll do whatever you want tonight."

Pietro considers that, then nods, a smile breaking out across his face. _"Hellboy 2 is on Netflix."  
_

* * *

THURS 28 MAY

 _[5:23PM]:_

 _do you remember your first date? what was it like_

[5:25PM]:

I thought we were supposed to be watching the movie.

 _[5:25PM]:_

 _? really  
_

 _[5:26PM]:_

 _so you are one of those people_

[5:27PM]:

Shhhhhhh this is a good part.

 _[5:28PM]:_

 _but all of it is good?_

[5:32PM]:

Wait, what do you mean by 'one of those people'?

[5:33PM]:

I feel like I should be offended, but I don't know why.

 _[5:35PM]:_

 _you know  
_

 _[5:35PM]:_

 _the type that only want to watch the movie_

[5:37PM]:

Why wouldn't I want to watch the movie? Hellboy's awesome.

[5:43PM]:

.. **..**

[5:45PM]:

I never really dated. Happy?

 _[5:47PM]:_

 _never?_

 _[5:47PM]:_

 _and why would that make me happy_

[5:50PM]:

Once or twice, yeah.

[5:53PM]:

I don't think the rest really qualified as dates.

[5:55PM]:

You meet someone, you spend a little time together, you go your separate ways. It happens.

[5:57PM]:

And then along came Laura.

 _[6:03PM]:_

 _do you think that will happen with us_

 _[6:05PM]:_

 _we will go our separate ways?_

[6:07PM]:

I think it's a little early to tell.

[6:13PM]:

But I also think that I don't want that to happen.

 _[6:17PM]:_

 _i miss your face_

[6:19PM]:

Really?

[6:19PM]:

I miss yours too.

 _[6:22PM]:_

 _what do you mean really?_

 _[6:25PM]:_

 _my boyfriend has a very nice face_

[6:30PM]:

.. **..**

[6:33PM]:

So does mine. Nice face, pretty eyes, smart mouth. Sound familiar?

 _[6:32PM]:_

 _;-) very_

 _[6:37PM]:_

 _i like this song_

[6:40PM]:

Me too.

[6:45PM]:

Pietro?

 _[6:47PM]:_

 _shhhhh this is the good part, remember?_

[6:50PM]:

I just wanted to say thanks. For today.

 _[6:51PM]:_

 _thanks? what for_

[6:54PM]:

For sharing all of that with me. The pictures, the pillows, all of it.

 _[6:57PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[6:59PM]:_

 _well i wanted to :-)_

 _[7:01PM]:_

 _you are important to me_

[7:04PM]:

Yeah? Well, I like you too. I think I'll keep you around. :)

 _[7:06PM]:_

 _i think i would like that_

 _[7:09PM]:_

 _will you tell me more about yout first date?_

[7:13PM]:

Sure. We went for coffee.

 _[7:15PM]:_

 _what_

 _[7:16PM]:_

 _just coffee? that isnt very romantic_

[7:18PM]:

Like I said, I haven't been on many dates. Not many memorable ones, anyway.

 _[7:20PM]:_

 _you went for coffee_

[7:23PM]:

And then we went back to my place, or his, I don't really remember.

 _[7:27PM]:_

 _ohh_

 _[7:28PM]:_

 _some of my dates are like that as well_

[7:30PM]:

Ours won't be.

[7:32PM]:

I meant what I said, ok? I want to try and do this right. Give it a real chance.

 _[7:34PM]:_

 _so no coffee then_

[7:36PM]:

Maybe not on the first date.

 _[7:40PM]:_

 _i think i would like to call you tomorrow_

 _[7:40PM]:_

 _if that is ok with you?_

[7:45PM]:

I'm a pretty busy guy. I'll check my schedule, see if I can squeeze you in somewhere. :)

 _[7:47PM]:_

 _busy doing what? breaking fingers? falling off a roof?_

 _[7:48PM]:_

 _letting a dog slobber all over you?_

[7:50PM]:

Still jealous, huh? Don't worry, one day you'll have slobbering privileges too.

 _[7:53PM]:_

 _i dont have them already?_

[7:55PM]:

I don't think we're at that stage just yet.

 _[7:57PM]:_

 _it will be worth the wait_

 _[7:59PM]:_

 _i dont want to go to sleep :(_

[8:03PM]:

It's still early, babe. Curfew's 10, right? We've still got time.

 _[8:05PM]:_

 _that one never gets old_

 _[8:07PM]:_

 _just because i like you doesnt mean i have to laugh at your bad jokes all the time_

[8:07PM]:

Oh, come on. You laughed. I'm a funny guy.

 _[8:09PM]:_

 _cute? yes. funny? not always_

[8:12PM]:

At last the truth comes out.

[8:14PM]:

Why don't you want to sleep? Bad dreams?

 _[8:16PM]:_

 _ha ha keep making your jokes old man  
_

[8:18PM]:

Hey, I'm not joking about the dreams. I get them too.

[8:20PM]:

What are the dreams about?

 _[8:23PM]:_

 _wanda and our parents_

[8:25PM]:

Good or bad?

 _[8:27PM]:_

 _mostly bad_

[8:30PM]:

You don't have to tell me anything else, but I'll be here if you change your mind.

[8:32PM]:

I wish I knew what to say. I don't have any decent advice. For some people, dreams are just dreams, and once they wake up it's over. That's not how it is for you, is it? All I can do is try to be there, in my own screwed up way. I'll also try not to say something stupid. How's that sound?

 _[8:35PM]:_

 _you always say something stupid  
_

 _[8:37PM]:_

but today was good i think it helped me to see you and share this with you

[8:40PM]:

I'll be there again tomorrow, and the next day. And whenever you need me, really. I've got loads of free time.

 _[8:43PM]:_

 _you said that you felt attached to me?_

[8:46PM]:

More than I realized, yeah. I care about you. I guess attachment's part of that package. Why?

 _[8:49PM]:_

 _i feel it too_

 _[8:52PM]:_

 _it is like we have known each other for years and not weeks_

[8:53PM]:

Doesn't feel like weeks to me either.

[8:55PM]:

I thought of something else that might help? If you want, you can tell me when you want to sleep or when you start feeling tired, and I'll call you. Get in bed, get comfy, and I'll call. Keep the phone up against your ear and I'll stay on the line until you fall asleep

[8:57PM]:

Would you like that?

 _[8:49PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[8:52PM]:_

 _you would really do that for me?_

[8:55PM]:

Of course. I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it.

 _[8:57PM]:_

 _no one has ever done something like this for me before_

 _[8:59PM]:_

 _thank you xxx_

[9:02PM]:

Anything for you. Xx

* * *

 **A/N:** the song from Hellboy II that Pietro's talking about is 'Can't Smile Without You'


	18. Chapter 18

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

FRI 29 MAY  


Clint wakes alone, which really isn't a surprise.

Still, there's a sharp sensation in his chest. A pang of loneliness, maybe. The house is quiet, just like it always is this time of morning. Rolling over, Clint smoothes his hand over the untouched side of the bed: empty, cold, undisturbed. He curls his fingers in the fabric of the sheet, and tries not to think too hard about why a part of him expected Pietro to be there.

It's stupid, really. To expect so much from someone that he only just met - scratch that, someone that he _hasn't_ even met, and only just started talking to. It's not just stupid, but risky as hell. Clint knows that he's in too deep, that if Pietro ended it all tomorrow then he'd be a mess.

There's something about Pietro that he can't quit.

And that actually scares Clint, more than he realized, and definitely more than he'd ever let on. There's a chance (small, yes, but still a chance) that this is going to end badly, and he's going to get hurt again. There's a chance that Pietro's going to grow bored, and tired of him, that he's going to look for something new, _better_.

His phone gives a sudden _bzz_ on the nightstand, which Clint ignores at first, until there's another sharp sound only seconds later.

With a sigh, and a small grunt of pain, Clint pushes himself up into a sitting position, cradling his injured fingers across his bare chest. There are two unread messages from Pietro, and while Clint's in the middle of typing up a response, a third message comes through. It takes him twice as long to reply lately, and maybe that's because he's still groggy from _just_ waking up, or maybe his broken fingers are to blame.

Either way, it doesn't really matter. Clint scrolls down to the most recent text, skimming past ' _are you awake yet?_ ' and ' _wake up im bored_ ' to find a picture message. Clint opens the image and smiles. He's instantly glad that this wasn't sent through Snapchat - there's no timer, no expiration on how long Clint can look at it.

Pietro's all messy hair and sleepy eyes, still in bed, and he's gorgeous. It's almost unfair.

His smile is like nothing else Clint has ever seen, all wide and bright, and _god_ he's something else. Clint can't drag his eyes away from the picture. He's not wearing a shirt either, which also captures Clint's attention. It's kind of hard to miss, really. The broad, bare shoulders. A flat, toned torso, with sparse hair across his chest, and a light sprinkling of freckles near his collarbone.

And, of course, there's the faint outline of a scar curving around his hip. In this light, in almost looks silver. Clint swallows thickly, and can't help but think about the faint pucker and ridge of the bullet scar on his shoulder. He closes the image of Pietro and types up a swift reply.

[8:16AM]:

Jesus, kid.

 _[8:19AM]:_

 _.. **..** _

_[8:20AM]:_

 _did i wake you_

[8:23AM]:

Nope, I was already awake.

[8:25AM]

You're killing me with these pictures, babe.

 _[8:29AM]:_

 _i wanted to say good morning :-)_

[8:33AM]:

Well, good mornng. :-)

[8:33AM]:

How'd you sleep?

 _[8:35AM]:_

 _not so bad. how did you sleep?_

[8:39AM]:

Better than I have in awhile. My hand's not hurting so much anymore, which is good. Means I sleep a little easier.

 _[8:40AM]:_

 _i am happy to hear it_

 _[8:42AM]:_

 _will you spend the day with me?_

[8:45AM]:

Of course. How can I refuse that offer?

 _[8:47AM]:_

 _you cant :)_

[8:49AM]:

So what're we doing today?

 _[8:53AM]:_

 _i have lessons at 4. wbu?_

[8:56AM]:

I've got nothing on. I'm all yours today.

 _[8:58AM]:_

 _just today?_

[9:00AM]:

Let's see how today goes?

 _[9:02AM]:_

 _sure. try not to fall in love with me ;-)_

[9:05AM]:

I'll try, but I can't make any promises.

 _[9:08AM]:_

 _did you like the photo?_

[9:10AM]:

C'mon. You know I do.

[9:13AM]:

Want me to say it? Alright. I like the photo. A lot.

 _[9:17AM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[9:21AM]:_

 _i want to thank you for last night_

[9:23AM]:

Hey, don't mention it. You'd do the same.

 _[9:25AM]:_

 _i would_

 _[9:26AM]:_

 _but i still want to thank you_

[9:27AM]:

It was the least I could do. I'd do it again if you asked me to.

[9:29AM]:

Now, I gotta go shower before I show you around.

 _[9:31AM]:_

 _what?_

[9:32AM]:

It's only fair, right? You showed me where you live, so I'll give you a tour of where I live.

[9:33AM]:

As much as I can, anyway. It's raining today. Might have to stay indoors?

 _[9:36AM]:_

 _i would like that :-)_

[9:39AM]:

Good. Then it's an almost-date. Be back in 10. Xx

* * *

FRI 29 MAY

When the Skype call connects, Clint's not really surprised to find that Pietro's still very much in bed. He looks comfortable, with the blankets pulled up to his chin, and a ridiculous amount of pillows stacked up behind his head. He sits up slowly, and fixes Clint with a sleepy smile, dragging the laptop up further into his lap. Then he gives Clint a small, almost shy, wave, like he's not sure if Clint's paying attention or not.

"Hey," Clint says belatedly. "Hi."

After his shower, Clint set the laptop up on a desk in his bedroom. He's in the middle of towel drying the damp ends of his hair (usually, he wouldn't bother, but the cold weather has a way of making _everything_ feel even colder, especially in this house). Once he's finished, Clint drapes the towel over the back of a nearby armchair and pads barefoot over to the desk.

"Lazy day in bed, huh?" he asks, plopping down on a wooden chair in front of the laptop. "Definitely the weather for it."

Pietro smiles, then stretches, and the movement reminds Clint of a cat. He's not really sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the way Pietro raises his hands up above his head, drops his head back on the pillows a second later, and then kind of _arches_ up. Then he's sitting up again, combing a hand through his messy hair and blinking at Clint slowly. His bed hair is spectacular; flattened down in places, but spiky and unruly in others.

 _"I have lessons today, but not until the afternoon."_ Pietro says. _"So, yes. A lazy day for me."_

"That works for me. I wanted to show you around the place, if you're interested. Uh, so, this is my room. Yeah. There's lots of clothes through there," Clint angles the laptop towards the direction of the walk-in wardrobe, which is a lot emptier now, since Laura left. "And out here is just the rest of my bedroom. Windows, lamps, and a bed. Regular stuff."

 _"Well, I want a better look."_

"You can see just fine from there."

 _"Is there something you don't want me to see?"_ he asks, always curious, always wanting to see and touch, to _know_.

"No." comes Clint's immediate response, a knee-jerk reaction. Of course, Pietro sees right through it, and simply sits there, watching Clint in that way of his. "Maybe. But it's nothing like whatever you're thinking. It's just - some of Laura's stuff is still here. Stuff that she doesn't want, or hasn't picked up yet. I guess I just don't want it to be weird. Whatever. It's weird, isn't it?"

 _"Not for me."_

"Alright, then get ready for the grand tour."

Pietro's practically bouncing up and down in anticipation, and it's enough for Clint. That little reaction makes Clint overlook the hesitance he had felt a moment earlier. Picking the laptop up off the desk, Clint balances his hands flat underneath it and angles it away from himself (the back of the laptop is pressed to his chest, while the camera is now facing his bedroom; it's the way Pietro held it when he showed Clint around his bedroom, and, for the most part, it seems to work).

There's still a lot of Laura's stuff in the bedroom, Clint realizes. Her touch is _everywhere_ , from the ugly orange lamps she insisted on buying (he grew to love them, really, just like the curtains in the kitchen) to the countless picture frames on the walls. It doesn't feel as awkward as it should, showing Pietro the space that he used to share with her, but maybe that's just because Pietro's doing his best to alleviate any tension.

He's running constant commentary, letting Clint know _exactly_ what he thinks.

Clint's quietly relieved that Pietro doesn't ask to see the faces in the photos. It's not that he doesn't want to share, no, that's not it at all. It's more that _this_ isn't the way that he wanted to do it. Sure, it worked for Pietro. He was able to pick up intimate objects and share them with Clint, and that wouldn't have been easy at all, Clint knows that. Still, he just can't bring himself to do the same.

That doesn't seem to bother Pietro though, who is currently fascinated by the fireplace in Clint's bedroom. It's directly opposite the bed, with a patterned rug on the floor in front of it, and two plush armchairs positioned nearby. Pietro's voice breaks Clint away from his quiet reflection.

 _"Do you use it often?"_

"When it's cold, yeah. Mostly in winter."

 _"Can we use it?"_

"You're not a little pyro, are you?"

 _"A - what? A pyro?"_

"Don't worry." Clint sighs. "Yeah, we can use it. Just - don't set anything else on fire. I kinda like my house the way it is. Unscorched."

 _"That is fair."_ he says. _"I will take note of this. Is there anything else I should know?"_

Clint directs the camera towards the bed. It's simple, really. There's no mountain of pillows, just a few scattered near the wooden headboard, and a pale throw rug draped over the end of the bed. "Oh, yeah. Lots of important stuff. Like see this side of the bed?" he asks, moving toward the left section of the king size bed. "That's my spot. You either take the other side of the bed, or you can try out the floor. It's pretty comfy. Lucky seems happy there. The two of you can cuddle."

 _"This is where your beloved dog sleeps? On the floor?"_

"He sleeps wherever the hell he wants."

 _"Your room,"_ he says, and pauses, like he's struggling to remember the word for it. _"It reminds me of a cabin. The one in the woods."_

"Yeah? I guess it does. There's a lot of, um. Wood." Clint says, and turns away from the bed. He shows Pietro the bookshelves next (there's less of Laura's stuff here, more of his) and then his desk, which is probably the messiest part of the room so far.

Countless papers are scattered across the wooden desk. It doesn't seem to bother Pietro. If anything, he seems more interested in that - in the chaos of crap, as Clint poetically put it. There's a vase full of limp, sad looking flowers which he should probably change for fresh ones. There's one photograph in an old silver frame as well, but, _again_ , Pietro doesn't pry.

It's almost like he's still testing the boundaries, not wanting to push too hard, too fast.

"Not much to see here." Clint comments, and doesn't hear any protest from Pietro as he moves towards the opposite side of the room. "This is the walk-in wardrobe," he says, and doesn't go too far inside that room. It's pretty bare now, what with all of Laura's stuff packed up in boxes, or gone. Still, he gives Pietro a brief look, revealing mostly plaid t-shirts and leather jackets, two old favorite's of Clint's.

 _"Where next?"_

"There's a bathroom down the hall."

 _"Away we go."_

Clint steps out into the hallway, and it feels a little strange to be showing Pietro around his house when it's so _empty_.

He cracks open the bathroom door with one hand, somehow managing to skillfully balance the laptop with the other. His fingers ache, though they don't hurt half as much as they did after the initial fall. Clint shows Pietro around the main bathroom, _his_ bathroom. It's the least colorful of all 3 bathrooms - the rest are bright, with colored tiles and wallpaper that Clint didn't necessary like, but it eventually grew on him - and he tells Pietro that, which kind of seems like a dick thing to say, Clint realizes.

It's a bit excessive, and he realizes with a pang of guilt that Pietro probably didn't grow up in a house like this.

Clint clears his throat awkwardly and steps further inside the room, showing Pietro the rest of it. There's a lot of white: the tub, the towels hung up on hooks, the wooden panels on the wall. The porcelain tub is propped up against the far wall, underneath a window (opaque glass, for privacy, but when opened there's a pretty sweet view of the farm).

His favorite part of the bathroom is probably the shower. There's nothing particularly special about it, really. He just likes the way the glass walls fog up with steam. After that, he steps back out into the hall, gives Pietro a quick glimpse of the the guest room, then heads downstairs. It's messier downstairs, more than Clint remembered. There's lots of clutter, like the boxes full of Laura's stuff piled up in the front room. Clint doesn't show Pietro that room.

Instead, he moves in the direction of the kitchen. Pietro seems inexplicably pleased that Clint's sharing this with him; it's nicer than any house he's ever been inside, he tells Clint, and if that makes Clint's chest constrict then that's neither here nor there, and it's definitely not something that he needs to share with Pietro.

 _"Wait, wait!"_ Pietro exclaims, causing Clint to pause mid-step. _"Go back."_

"Back to where? Back upstairs?"

 _"Back to the other room. Before the kitchen. The one with the red chairs. Please, I want to see this room."_

"Why? There's nothing special about it. Just a bunch of chairs, an old couch, and a TV. What's so special about that?" Clint asks, but he's already headed back there.

Pietro wants to appreciate _everything_ , or so he tells Clint. There's not much to show him, not really. Most of it belongs to Laura, which is awkward enough, but he still seems pretty pleased just to be allowed this glimpse into Clint's life. When they finally make it to the kitchen, Pietro tells Clint to " _set him down on the bench_ " because he needs to pee, and there's no point of Clint showing him around the kitchen if he isn't there to actually _see_ it.

"Alright." Clint says, and fetches a glass from one of the higher shelves, and fills it with water.

He stays by the kitchen sink, a glass of water gripped firmly in his uninjured hand. It's still raining out; even if he wasn't standing by the window, watching the water pour down, then he'd be able to hear it. There's something about the rain that always seems to echo through the house, like it's reverberating off of a tin roof. Pietro returns a beat later, and it's only then that Clint notices the change of outfit: he's no longer shirtless, and is now wearing a pale grey sweater.

"You've seen my kitchen before."

 _"I want to see it again."_

Setting the glass down on the bench, Clint trades it for the laptop. "Well, here it is." he spins around quickly on purpose, too fast for Pietro to actually see anything. The sound of Pietro's laugh is enough to make Clint join in, laughing along with him easily. "What? Don't tell me I'm too fast for you, kid."

Pietro doesn't even dignify that with a proper response. His attention is already on the _next_ moment, rather than on the present.

 _"Where will we go next?"_ he asks. _"Are there other rooms? What is through that window?"_

"Let's take it one question at a time."

 _"Where next?"_

"It's still raining outside, so we gotta stick indoors."

 _"Fine with me."_ Pietro says. _"Are there other rooms on this floor?"_

"Yeah. There's a guest room, but it's full of junk right now, and there's another bathroom near that. It's pretty much the same as the rest though, nothing new." Clint replies, and walks towards the small room just off the kitchen (he plays darts there, sometimes). There's a small chair in the corner, and beads hanging off of the doorframe - another one of Laura's touches.

 _"And the window?"_

"What window?" Clint asks. "The one near the sink?"

 _"No, that one. The one in the middle of the wall there."_

"Oh. That's - yeah. That's not a window. It's a pass through. Like a window, but without glass, I guess."

Pietro looks a little confused, at first, but then seems to warm to the idea as Clint moves closer.

 _"So if you were there, I could see you from the kitchen?"_

"Pretty much, yeah. Allows a clear view, me to you." Clint says, and plops down in the armchair in the corner of the small room. He turns the laptop around, and smiles when he meets Pietro's gaze. "So what do you think? I know there's not much here. Some of it's not mine, so it wouldn't feel right. Going through that stuff."

 _"No, I understand. I think you have a nice house. Very big. Spacious. Lots of room for running,"_ Pietro says, gesturing with his hands. The sleeves of the sweater are too long; his hands are almost completely swallowed up by them, only showing from the knuckle down. _"Among other things. Will you show me the rest another time? The outside?"_

"I'd be happy to. Whenever the rain pisses off, I'll show you around outside. The barn. Where I used to keep the chickens. I've got a patch to grow veggies, but I never got around to it. Maybe I'll show you that next time."

 _"It is a date. An almost-date, like you said before."_

"Speaking of dates," Clint says, and slumps back in the chair a little. It's comfy, like this, with his head reclined ever so slightly, the laptop on his knees. "I thought of what we could do for ours. You know, our first. There's a fair on. Like a carnival. You probably heard about it, since you live nearby, but um - if that's not what you want, then we'll do something else. Go get a drink. Whatever, man. Whatever you want."

 _"This carnival would be fun, no?"_ Pietro says. _"I would like to go. When is it?"_

"Next weekend. Both nights. Whatever works for you."

 _"I think the Saturday night."_

There's that nervous flutter in Clint's stomach again. He smiles through it, and lifts a hand to the screen, nodding slowly. "Saturday night it is."

Pietro mirrors the movement, lifting one of his own hands to the screen to touch the spot where Clint's rests. Then he rolls his eyes, like he also realizes how sickeningly domestic they already are. There's something fond about it though, just like the curve of his smile and the slight color in his cheeks. _"I hope that you are asking me to this because you like me,"_ he says, giving Clint a stern look. _"And not because you want me to protect you from the clowns you are so afraid of."_

"You got me." Clint holds up both hands in defeats. "That's why I'm asking you out. It's the only reason why."

 _"I thought so."_

"I'm pretty sure they'll have ponies there. At the fair," Clint continues. "The kids usually pet 'em, but they're super scary. I'm thinking you might need me there as much as I need you. They'll probably even have stuffed ponies as prizes. Want me to win you one, babe? I will if you want. Only the best for you."

 _"We will need each other then,"_ Pietro says, and narrows his eyes at Clint. _"But I will win my own prizes, when I beat your ass at all of these games."_

"Oh, it's _so_ on."

* * *

FRI 29 MAY

"You know, I had a friend once-"

Pietro scoffs, and pulls a face. Clint doesn't really know how to describe it: everything is scrunched up, his eyes, his _nose_ , and it's still endearing. He's sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling his legs in the water, phone angled at his face. This is one of their firsts - a FaceTime call. Pietro finished up his lesson half an hour ago, and hasn't left his spot on the ledge since then.

It's all indoors, sheltered from the shitty weather (dark, rumbling skies, and small bouts of hail). There's a pale blue towel draped over Pietro's broad shoulders, and a slight indent across his nose from where the goggles left an imprint. His hair dries in the strangest way, Clint notices. Like it _wants_ to curl, but doesn't quite know how.

 _"You had a friend? I find this hard to believe."_ comes Pietro's snarky reply. He's grinning at his phone like an idiot. _"But go on."_

"His hair was light, like yours. He spent too much time in the water and the chlorine turned his hair green." Clint finishes, and is somewhat satifised by the shocked gasp Pietro makes. He lifts a hand to his hair, and toys with the ends of it, tugging on strands like he has to make sure they _aren't_ green.

 _"Oh, I see."_

"See what?"

Pietro doesn't answer, at first. Clint wonders if he's pausing for dramatic effect, which would totally be his style. He's still touching his hair, brow furrowed slightly as he cards slender fingers through the matted locks. Clint exhales a nervous laugh when he _finally_ catches up to speed on what Pietro's saying. It turns out, he's also guilty of drifting off, not paying attention when he probably should be.

He's also starting to notice that Pietro's accent gets thicker when he's angry, or irritated.

 _"You have not heard a single word I have said, have you?"_

"No, I heard. Keep going. It's all _very_ interesting."

 _"I said,"_ Pietro huffs. _"You are upset with me for saying that you had no friends, so you are trying to scare me with the green hair story. It worked. You win, and you now have all the friends that you need. A hundred friends, if that makes you happy."_

Faintly, Clint hears the sound of water splashing, but then realizes it's just Pietro swinging his legs back and forth.

"Don't fall in."

 _"That is all you have to say?"_ Pietro asks, voice taking on an accusatory tone.

"Um." Clint flounders. "Don't fall in, babe?"

 _"You are hopeless, old man."  
_

"I sure feel it."

Pietro seems to hesitate. _"You were teasing. It was a joke, yes? The story of green hair? I think it would not suit me so much."_ he says, and Clint wants to laugh. This isn't exactly a first; they have conversations like this _all_ the time. Clint sometimes wonders if they'll ever run out of things to talk about, but he doubts it. _"I would look...strange."_

"What, stranger than you already do?"

 _"I think you would like me with green hair, old man."_ Pietro announces. _"Even if it looked strange."_

"Oh?" Clint asks, and brings the phone closer to his face. He's sprawled out on the couch, one arm propped up underneath his head. "What makes you so sure? You'd look like the Joker. Or like, um. That one guy from that other movie. Yeah, you're probably right. I'd like it." he admits, "If you can work white, then you can definitely work green."

Pietro narrows his eyes. _"I think there is a compliment in there somewhere, but I am not so sure."_

"Don't give me that look."

 _"There is no look."_

"Come on. There's a look. I'm almost certain there's a look."

 _"I am disappointed."_ Pietro admits, with a shrug of his shoulder. He has been out of the water for quite some time now, but Clint can still spot the beads of water that cling to him. Most of it has dried, except around his shoulders (his hair is still damp, causing fresh droplets of water to trickle down his skin). _"I thought that my boyfriend would have nicer things to say about me."_

Clint laughs shakily. "Babe, come on. You know I've only got nice things to say about you." he says, voice dropping low, meant only for Pietro's ears.

There's no one else around - except for Lucky, but he's not really paying much attention to Clint _-_ but Clint still speaks softly, even if it seems ridiculous to do so. Although there's no genuine look of hurt in Pietro's expression, he _does_ sound a little disappointed and that churns Clint's insides right up.

"Hey, look, you know I'm just teasing. That's what we do. We tease, but you know I don't mean it." Clint says, and quickly adds. "Most of the time. That's a joke as well. Listen, I - why do you always make me say this stuff? Look, you're great. I like you. All of you."

Pietro fixes Clint with smile. _"Well, I like you too. Gray hairs and all."_

* * *

A/N: Thanks for all the feedback, it's much appreciated.


	19. Chapter 19

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Nat**

* * *

SUN 31 MAY

Clint's already awake by the time Pietro's first text comes through. He's down in the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of coffee in the semi-darkness of the house, when the phone vibrates on the counter, twice as loud in the silence. It's sudden enough that it even startles Lucky, who rarely jumps at _anything._ Except his own shadow, of course, and Clint's too. He chases his tail, chases Clint's feet when he moves them _under_ the blanket.

The phone vibrates a second time, so Clint dusts his hands off on his pants then picks it up off of the counter.

One of the first things Clint does in the morning is check his messages. Not just out of curiousity, but out of habit. He was never really the type to keep his phone on his person at _all_ times, not like Stark, or even Bucky, but that was before Pietro.

Clint finds himself doing that a lot, lately. Viewing his life in two clean breaks, two huge chunks of time. There's the period of time before Pietro, and there will inevitably be the time after Pietro. Clint unlocks the iPhone with a single swipe and skims through Pietro's latests messages, if only to keep himself occupied, to stay away from thinking about what his life will be like after Pietro leaves it.

 _[6:43AM]:_

 _wakey wakey_

 _[6:45AM]:_

 _i have something i need to talk to you about  
_

[6:48AM]:

Hey. Morning. Xx

 _[6:50AM]:_

 _oh you are awake already? sorry if it is because of me  
_

[6:54AM]:

The innocent act is super cute this early.

[6:55AM]:

What's up? It sounded semi-serious.

 _[6:58AM]:_

 _im going on an adventure today  
_

[7:04AM]:

I was wrong. That's very serious stuff.

[7:05AM]:

What kind of adventure are we talking about here? Is it the 'going on a journey with a company of dwarves and Gandalf to defeat a dragon' type of adventure? Or more a 'I might just put on some pants today' type of thing?

[7:05AM]:

Wait, no spoilers. Give me 1 minute and then you'll have my full undivided attention.

As if on cue, the kettle lets out a low-pitched whistle. It gradually climbs higher, and _shit_ , Clint remembers why he hates that damn thing. He wonders if it's slowly climbing up to that shrill, high-pitched frequency that only dogs can hear. He pulls it off of the stove and pours in into the ceramic baseball mug that Steve got him for his birthday last year, that is quite literally shaped like a baseball.

Clint sets the kettle aside, flicks the switch on the stove off, then grabs a carton of milk from the fridge.

He usually takes his coffee black (just like his soul, according to Bucky) but, for some reason, today feels like a milk and sugar day. Clint pours a little milk in, adds a second teaspoon of suger because why not, then ponders whether he should try to balance his iPhone and coffee in one hand, or if it's really not worth the trouble.

It wouldn't be the first time he's spilt hot coffee all over himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Still, it probably isn't worth the risk. He sets the chipped ceramic mug - Steve had been absolutely horrified at the idea of his precious gift being chipped, so Clint had taken extra care with it from there on out - down on the table in the kitchen, retrieves his phone and then plops down in a chair shortly after.

 _[7:07AM]:_

 _oh please_

 _[7:07AM]:_

 _i have always had your undivided full attention_

 _[7:09AM]:_

 _im going for a bike ride today :-)_

[7:15AM]:

That's what you had to tell me? The big news?

[7:16AM]:

I'm kind of disappointed. I like the Gandalf thing better than this.

 _[7:16AM]:_

 _well i was going to ask you to join me_

 _[7:17AM]:_

 _but since we are being grumpy today i think that you should stay home  
_

[7:20AM]:

Wait. Back up. You want me to join you?

 _[7:23AM]:_

 _not anymore  
_

[7:25AM]:

How would that even work? I mean, we've never really talked about this. About how close we actually might live to each other.

 _[7:27AM]:_

 _i live near the bar where wanda works_

 _[7:28AM]:_

 _you know the one yes?_

[7:30AM]:

Yeah, I know it. That's not exactly on my side of town.

 _[7:31AM]:_

 _then dont come_

[7:34AM]:

Oh, come on. You're not seriously mad about this?

[7:36AM]:

Might wanna cut me a little slack. I've still got the broken finger situation going on over here, and you did just spring this on me at the very last minute.

 _[7:40AM]:_

 _i know._

[7:47AM]:

Send me pictures? I can live vicariously through you. Xx

 _[7:49AM]:_

 _go back to bed, hopeless man x_

* * *

SUN 31 MAY

Clint doesn't go back to bed. He finishes his coffee, showers and shaves, then takes Lucky for a walk (or, maybe Lucky takes _him_ for a walk, since he's the one running ahead eagerly, trotting like a small horse and dragging Clint along the entire way). It occurs to Clint that maybe, just _maybe_ , he should've taken Pietro's advice and climbed back into bed, because Lucky's leash snaps suddenly and he runs a little off course.

When he returns, tail between his legs and all, he's covered in twigs, dirt and a gross amount of spiderwebs. Clint's horrified.

It takes a lot of effort, on Clint's part, to finally get the dog clean again.

And once it's all over, Lucky's coat is shiny and glossy, and he's _spotless_. Clint, however, is the filthy, sweaty one. He's outside, stripped down to nothing but a pale tanktop and jeans, picking spiderwebs off of his skin. Lucky's sleeping happily, a few feet away, while Clint slumps against one of the wooden beams that holds the porch roof up. His phone vibrates suddenly, and Clint pats his pockets down for it

The screen lights up, as soon as Clint pulls it from his pocket, and he notices a small ghost symbol in the top left corner of the screen. For most of the morning, his messages went unanswered, and Clint couldn't quite figure out why - he still can't, but he clicks the image anyway, and smiles when it opens.

Instead of sending yet another text to Pietro that would probably go unanswered, Clint opens the chat screen and types up a swift reply. He hits send, and watches as the small yellow circle in the bottom corner of the screen turns blue; it took Clint a little while to get the hang of Snapchat, but he knows what that means now. At least, he's 50/50 on it.

Yellow means that no one's there. Blue, however, means that Pietro's looking at the exact same screen, and possibly writing up a response.

 **luckybarton:**

Nice view. I see why you dropped off the radar for a bit.

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_it was worth it_

 _so?_

 _should i?_

 **luckybarton:**

Depends. What's the water like?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_how would i know if i havent been in_

 **luckybarton:**

You could dip your toe in. Test the water.

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_or i could just jump_

 _swan dive?_

 **luckybarton:**

Yeah, sure. Go for it.

I like your bike.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_i like my bike too_

 **luckybarton:**

Something tells me you're still mad at me.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_why would you think that?_

 **luckybarton:** _  
_

You didn't answer any of my texts.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_well i was busy_

 **luckybarton:**

And now?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_and now im not busy_

 _but i am going for a swim in a moment  
_

 **luckybarton:**

Can we at least talk about this before you go?

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_what do you want to talk about?_

 **luckybarton:**

Come on. You know what.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_i was upset about the plans ok_

 **luckybarton:**

Babe. How am I meant to ride a bike with one hand?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_well you were in the circus werent you?_

 **luckybarton:**

Not for that, I wasn't.

You also dropped it on me at the very last moment. What was I supposed to do?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_maybe not abandon me_

 **luckybarton:**

You're seriously upset about this, aren't you?

Babe?

I don't think you're telling me everything. What's going on with you today?

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_what else do you want me to say?  
_

 **luckybarton:**

Maybe tell me the real reason behind what's bugging you.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_you wouldnt understand  
_

 **luckybarton:**

Yeah? You're sure about that?

Come on, try me.

How bad can it be?

Clint stares at the screen and watches as the blue circle turns yellow, and Pietro disappears once more.

* * *

MON 1 JUNE

[9:02AM]:

Hey. So you seemed pretty pissed off yesterday. I thought I'd give you some time to yourself.

[9:05AM]:

Alright. I hope everything's ok.

[9:08AM]:

I'll still be here if you feel up for a talk. Xx

* * *

MON 1 JUNE

[1:48PM]:

Please make Tony stop whatever he's planning for my birthday.

[1:48PM]:

And don't tell me he's not planning anything. Because he is. He just text me and asked me on a scale of 1 to 10 how much I like Jay Gatsby.

 **[1:53PM]:**

 **what makes you think he'll listen to me?**

[1:56PM]:

Seriously?

[1:58PM]:

Maybe because it's you, and he's terrified of you. He always listens to you.

 **[2:03PM]:**

 **okay.**

[2:05PM]:

Okay?

 **[2:07PM]:**

 **okay, I'll do it. what's gotten into you?**

[2:09PM]:

Why does something have to have gotten into me?

 **[2:12PM]:**

 **you're acting weird.**

 **[2:14PM]:**

 **why don't you want to celebrate your birthday?**

[2:17PM]:

I will celebrate it if I have to. I'd rather not do it Tony's way though.

[2:19PM]:

He wants to throw me a Gatsby-themed pool party.

 **[2:24PM]:**

 **and you said no? you know how much Tony loves Gatsby-themed parties.**

[2:26PM]:

It's not Tony's birthday.

 **[2:28PM]:**

 **Sam will be disappointed.**

[2:30PM]:

That's really too bad, Nat.

 **[2:34PM]:**

 **what do you want to do instead?**

[2:37PM]:

I want to get drunk. Eat good food. Maybe play some darts.

 **[2:39PM]:**

 **so a regular night at the Barton household?**

[2:43PM]:

Yeah. Is that so bad? This year's been so up and down. I just want something quiet.

 **[2:45PM]:**

 **okay. we can do quiet.**

 **[2:48PM]:**

 **where?**

[2:50PM]:

I'll think of something.

 **[2:53PM]:**

 **okay. and what about the guest list?**

[2:56PM]:

What about it?

 **[2:59PM]:**

 **do you want Tony to take care of that too?**

[3:03PM]:

.. **..**

[3:05PM]:

No. Stark's not taking care of anything.

 **[3:08PM]:**

 **tell that to Tony.**

[3:10PM]:

Nah, I'm good. I think I'll leave that up to you.

 **[3:14PM]:**

 **will your Running Man be there?  
**

[3:16PM]:

I don't know. Maybe.

 **[3:19PM]:**

 **okay. I'll keep you updated on the Tony situation.**

[3:23PM]:

Thanks, Nat.

* * *

MON 1 JUNE

[7:03PM]:

Can we talk? Please.

[7:06PM]:

I think I deserve to know why you're ignoring me.

 _[7:09PM]:_

 _i said i didnt want to talk about it_

[7:14PM]:

No, you didn't. You didn't say anything.

 _[7:17PM]:_

 _well im saying it now_

[7:20PM]:

I want to talk about it. Doesn't that count?

 _[7:24PM]:_

 _..._

 _[7:27PM]:_

 _i cant_

[7:30PM]:

Ok. Why not?

 _[7:34PM]:_

 _because i have plans_

[7:37PM]:

You can't even spare 5 minutes?

 _[7:40PM]:_

 _no i have to go._

[7:44PM]:

I see how you got the nickname Quicksilver now.

 _[7:46PM]:_

 _?_

[7:49PM]:

You're here, and then you're gone just as quickly.

 _[7:49PM]:_

 _zoooooooooom._

* * *

MON 1 JUNE  


[11:56PM] INCOMING CALL: Pietro

* * *

TUES 2 JUNE

[8:05AM]:

Sorry I missed your call last night.

[8:07AM]:

Let me know you're ok and not in any sort of trouble.

 _[8:19AM]:_

 _i wanted to talk_

[8:23AM]:

When? Last night?

 _[8:25AM]:_

 _yes_

[8:27AM]:

.. **..**

[8:29AM]:

Well, life gets in the way, I guess. You were busy. I was busy. Whatever. You're not hurt, are you?

 _[8:32AM]:_

 _so now you are upset with me? for calling you?_

[8:35AM]:

No, kid, I'm not upset. I'm confused as hell.

[8:37AM]:

Was there something specific that you wanted to talk about last night? Or not? Maybe the weather, or how Snowball's doing? Or maybe why you've been treating me like I'm such an asshole for bailing on plans that you threw at me at the absolute last minute? Was that it?

 _[8:40AM]:_

 _i dont know why i bother_

[8:43AM]:

Yeah? Well, I'm starting to wonder the same thing. I don't know why I even bothered in the first place.

[8:47AM]:

Fuck, I didn't mean that.

[8:49AM]:

I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry.

 _[8:53AM]:_

 _i know  
_

[8:55AM]:

Will you tell me what's going on?

 _[8:59AM]:_

 _i want to  
_

[9:01AM]:

Then why can't you?

 _[9:04AM]:_

 _because i feel like i have made a mess of this  
_

 _[9:05AM]:_

 _i said i wanted you to leave me alone but i didnt want you to go i feel like an idiot  
_

[9:08AM]:

Hey, come on, you're not an idiot. I've been there and done that a thousand times. I can't even remember the number of times I told you to piss off when all I really wanted was to keep talking. That's not a big deal. You could've said worse and I would've stuck around.

 _[9:13AM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[9:16AM]:_

 _why did you stick around_

[9:18AM]:

You know why.

 _[9:23AM]:_

 _i didnt want to be alone  
_

[9:27AM]:

Alone when? Sunday?

 _[9:30AM]:_

 _yes on sunday  
_

[9:34AM]:

Why not?

[9:36AM]:

Did something happen? You're not hurt, are you?

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _not hurt like that_

[9:43AM]:

Then like what?

[9:45AM]:

You're kinda freaking me out right now. Are you sure nothing happened? Whatever it is, you can tell me.

 _[9:48AM]:_

 _i forgot_

[9:49AM]:

Forgot what?

 _[9:53AM]:_

 _it was the anniversary of when our parents died_

 _[9:56AM]:_

 _i forgot and then i woke up alone and wanda was at work i didnt have anyone else but you_

[9:57AM]:

.. **..**

[10:03AM]:

You should've told me. If I knew, then I would've been over there and I would've stayed with you for as long as you needed me to. No bike riding though, because my hand + riding near a cliff = tragedy. But I would've been there. All you had to do was ask.

 _[10:06AM]:_

 _i did ask you_

[10:09AM]:

Yeah, you asked me to go for a bike ride. I didn't know realize why, or what it meant. I'm sorry.

[10:14AM]:

Do you want to talk about it?

 _[10:16AM]:_

 _no not today_

 _[10:18AM]:_

 _but i still want to talk to you_

[10:20AM]:

We can talk. All day, if you want. That's the beauty of being self-employed. And having 3 broken fingers.

 _[10:23AM]:_

 _they would like you_

[10:25AM]:

Yeah? I'm sure I would've liked them too, if they were anything like you.

[10:25AM]:

And I'm sure they loved you and Wanda a lot. So, so much. Don't doubt that. I know it's hard, but don't beat yourself up about this.

 _[10:28AM]:_

 _but i forgot about them_

[10:30AM]:

Hey, it happens. You have a lot going on. That doesn't mean you stopped loving them or missing them. Take it from me, ok? Sometimes we just forget. My parents died when I was a kid. Barney died almost 6 years ago now. It was the first thing I thought about when I woke up for years, and then it suddenly wasn't.

[10:32AM]:

Doesn't mean you don't care. Ok?

 _[10:35AM]:_

 _thank you for saying that_

[10:37AM]:

It's the truth. Don't be so hard on yourself. Xx

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _can i ask you something_

[10:41AM]:

Yeah, sure. Go ahead.

 _[10:43AM]:_

 _when did you start waking up and thinking of different things? better things  
_

[10:46AM]:

That's a tough one. I thought about my parents for years after it happened. And then I was about your age when I just stopped hating myself over it. Barney's a different story though. He was my brother and then he was just gone. So that one took a little while longer.

[10:48AM]:

I still think about them, you know. Even if they aren't the first thing on my mind. They're still there and I'm ok with that now.

 _[10:52AM]:_

 _how did you become ok with it_

[10:56AM]:

It took time and a lot of booze. But I recommend the time. It's more helpful than the booze.

 _[10:57AM]:_

 _but not as fun i would think?_

[10:59AM]:

Haha, yeah. Probably not as fun.

 _[11:03AM]:_

 _can i ask you something else_

[11:05AM]:

Sure. Always.

 _[11:09AM]:_

 _what do you think of now? when you wake up_

[11:13AM]:

Coffee.

[11:15AM]:

Actually, no, that's a lie. Or a half-lie. Should I say half-truth? Because it's true, I do think of coffee, but that's because I usually wake up feeling like a zombie. Coffee's one of my later thoughts, not one of the first to cross my mind.

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _so what is it then? what are the first things that cross your mind when you wake?  
_

[11:20AM]:

You. Ok? It's usually you.

 _[11:23AM]:_

 _only good things i hope_

[11:25AM]:

Oh, yeah. I wake up wondering what you'll say or do next to surprise me. There's always something new with you. You're unpredictable in that way, which is nice. It's good, don't worry. Only good things.

 _[11:28AM]:_

 _i want to say sorry for how i was but im not sure how or if you will forgive me  
_

[11:30AM]:

There's nothing to be sorry for. I meant it, ok? It's water under the bridge. How's that sound?

 _[11:34AM]:_

 _good i think_

 _[11:35AM]:_

 _except i am not so sure what that means? there is water under a bridge  
_

[11:37AM]:

It means it's forgotten. We move on.

 _[11:39AM]:_

 _what? just like that_

[11:42AM]:

Yup. Just like that. Xx

 _[11:43AM]:_

 _i dont think i deserve that_

[11:46AM]:

Well, I disagree.

 _[11:47AM]:_

 _are we still on for saturday night?_

[11:50AM]:

Yeah, you bet. Unless you've changed your mind? Which is cool. I'd understand if you did.

 _[11:53AM]:_

 _i want to go i didnt change my mind_

[11:55AM]:

Are you good to get there, or do you need a lift?

 _[11:58AM]:_

 _no i should be fine to get there_

 _[11:58AM]:_

 _i could always run_

[12:01PM]:

I'm sure you could. Want me to text you the directions?

 _[12:03PM]:_

 _it will be hard to miss, yes? all the lights and rides i think i will be ok_

[12:06PM]:

Ok, so that's settled. Is there anything else we need to cover?

[12:08PM]:

Right. Where?

 _[12:13PM]:_

 _where what?_

[12:16PM]:

Where should I wait for you?

[12:18PM]:

I think you'd be pretty hard to miss in a crowd, but I just want to pick somewhere so you don't get lost.

 _[12:21PM]:_

 _was that a compliment? calling me hard to miss?_

[12:23PM]:

Yeah. Maybe. So what?

 _[12:25PM]:_

 _so nothing_

 _[12:25PM]:_

 _i missed you_

[12:26PM]:

Yeah? I missed you too.

 _[12:28PM]:_

 _what if i get there first? where do i wait_

[12:30PM]:

Alright. If I get there first, I'll text you and say where I am. I'll keep an eye out for the good-looking smartass with white hair. And if you get there before me, then just send me a text, say where you are and keep an eye out. How's that sound?

 _[12:33PM]:_

 _sounds like a date :-)_

[12:38PM]:

I really hate to do this, especially now, but I gotta go. I'll call you tonight, if you want? Xx

 _[12:45PM]:_

 _anytime after 6 will be fine xx_

* * *

TUES 2 JUNE

Pietro's outgoing voicemail message is blunt, and unlike what Clint would've expected from someone like him (someone who likes to talk and _talk_ , until he loses track of what he wanted to talk about in the first place, which is actually really adorable, and kind of endearing, but that's hardly the point). Still, Clint supposes that he should be used to bluntness. He remembers Natasha's outgoing message, which goes something like ' _Nat. You know what to do_ ' and somehow, that sums up exactly who she is as a person.

It's 6:46PM when Clint tries again.

The second call rings and _rings_ , before cutting to the voicemail message. It's a little crackly and muffled, but Clint can still hear, and maybe it's a little strange that he feels a bit better just from hearing Pietro's voice, but that's neithere here nor there.

" _Hello. This is Pietro. Leave a message_."

Clint considers doing just that, but ends the call a moment later.

It wasn't like they decided on a time, really, so Clint doesn't send off a text. Instead, he scrolls through his inbox, and deletes a ton of junk - which would make Sam a very happy man, actually. He almost fainted when he saw that Clint had over 200 unread emails. Okay, so he didn't faint, but he did clutch at his pearls and make a whole big thing about how disorganized and neglectful Clint is.

Once his inbox is clear, and all emails are marked as unread, Clint takes a screenshot of the page and sends it straight to Sam. It's only once the image is gone that Clint zooms in and notices the small ghost notificaton in the top corner of the screen.

Somehow, he hadn't notice that until now. Clint hesitates, before opening the app. The picture is set to a 10 second timer, and Clint's not really sure whether Pietro's having a joke at his expense, or if he completely forgot about _that_ rather unpleasant part of their conversation (argument? he doesn't know what it was, what to call it, if it even needs a label).

 **luckybarton:**

Nice shoes. Are they new?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_ish_

 _new-ish_

 **luckybarton:**

Zooooooom?

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_remember?_

 **luckybarton:**

Yeah, I remember.

We never really talked about that.

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_did you want to?_

 **luckybarton:**

I guess. Did you?

 **_quicksilver007:_ **

_yes_

 _ill call in 5_

 **luckybarton:**

Alright. Talk then. X

 _**quicksilver007:** _

_we will  
_

* * *

TUES 2 JUNE

Five minutes come and go, and Clint's too preoccupied heating up leftovers in the kitchen to hear his phone vibrate. He returns to the living room and plops down on the couch with a plate of lasagne, and doesn't think to check his phone until he's finished eating. Setting the plate down on the coffee table, Clint stretches for his phone, and when the screen lights up, there are two notification: a missed call from Pietro, and a voicemail.

Clint fumbles for the TV remote, and mutes the M*A*S*H rerun. He brings up the voicemail, lifts the phone to his ear, and waits.

There's nothing but silence, at first. And then Pietro's voice fills his ears, and Clint can't help but smile. He sounds - well, exactly like Clint remembered. It had only been a couple of days since they last spoke, really, but it felt like longer. Clint cradles the phone closer to his ear, and settles in against the pillows a little more, his smile growing as Pietro continues.

 _"-well, I think you knew that already, no? I will say it again. I missed you. I miss you, even if you are strange about your feelings."_

The recording stops suddenly, but then Clint realizes it didn't cut out (Pietro sighs, on the other end, but says nothing else for a moment). He's either pausing for dramatic effect, or because he's lost his point, _again_. Either way, Clint isn't too bothered.

He scratches at his jaw idly, and waits for Pietro's voice to return.

 _"I'm not so good at it either though, I think. Which is why I think we would not be so good together,"_ Pietro says, and the smile falls right off Clint's face. His chest seizes up, all strange and tight, but then Pietro continues, and Clint exhales a low sigh. _"That was not how I meant for it to sound. I meant is that it would not be so good for us if we continue like this. Dishonest. Closed off."_

Clint shifts on the couch, and moves so he's sitting on the edge, legs hanging over the side and bare feet on the floor.

 _"I would like to be honest with you, so I will start with something small: I have a picture of my parents. I take it out and look at it every day. This way, I will always remember what they look."_ he pauses, and there's some minor disruptance on the line, a crackle that cuts out a lot of what Pietro says next.

As if it might solve the problem, Clint stands up and tries to find a spot in the room with better cell reception, before he remembers that it's a voicemail, not a phonecall, so it doesn't really matter where he's standing. Faintly, he hears Pietro's voice return on the line, and he wonders just how long the recording goes for (part of him hopes it doesn't end soon, he's missed this).

 _"-something else. I think I could. Will you call me back? I hope so. Though I would not blame you if you didn't."_

The recording ends, after that. A polite, automated voice asks Clint if he would like to 1) Return the call, or -

He doesn't listen to the other options, doesn't need to. Clint moves back to the sofa and perches on the very edge. He sits and waits with baited breath for Pietro to pick up. The line rings for what feels like a _really_ long time, and Clint's ready to leave a message on Pietro's answering machine when there's an audible _click_ , and Pietro's voice echoes down the line.

 _"I don't want to be here and then gone, like you said."_ Pietro confesses. _"I only want to be here."_

"Well, I'd like that. A lot." Clint says.

 _"Then it's settled."_

"You know I didn't mean that, right? When I said you were here, and then gone. I was being a dick. You've stuck around longer than most," Clint says. "And I'm not really one to talk about disappearing. I mean, how many times did I bail on you when things were getting rough?"

 _"It isn't the same."_ Pietro argues.

"Why not?"

Pietro hesitates. _"You had a reason for it. I-"_

"You had your reasons, babe."

 _"I meant it. That I don't want to be gone. I'm not like him,"_ Pietro says. " _Like your Tony."  
_

"He wasn't my Tony, and you're not like him."

 _"No?"_

"Not even a little bit."

 _"I want to stay."_

"So stay," Clint says gently. "And I'll stay too. It'll be nice."

Pietro's voice sounds closer, suddenly. There's less hesistance, when he next speaks, like he's stopped doubting himself, stopped beating himself up over something that wasn't even remotely his fault. He almost sounds playful, but there's a tentativeness there that Clint had only seen in him a handful of times before.

 _"Are you busy tonight?"_

"Yeah. I'm real busy watching M*A*S*H reruns. Wanna join?"

There's a pause, and Clint can actually picture Pietro wrinkling his nose up in that way of his. _"That sounds...tempting."_ Pietro settles on. _"Wanda would make me watch it, when we were children. I forget his name, but she liked the tall one. Pretty, dark hair, dark eyes. I forget his name. Wait, Hellboy III is on Netflix. Why don't we watch that?"_

"Hellboy III doesn't even exist."

 _"Oh."_

"So, I thought of something. You said you wanted to be honest? Well, this is me giving my best shot at that. Here goes nothing," Clint says, voice oddly strained. "We played a game once, remember? Truth or Dare. Do you remember what your dare was? That last one. Do you-"

 _"I remember."_ Pietro says. _"Yes, I remember. Why?"_

"Why? Because I think I'm losing the dare." Clints says, then adds, "Oh, and his name's Benjamin Pierce, but everyone calls him Hawkeye."

* * *

A/N: Hellboy III doesn't exist, but it totally should. Also, is weird about uploading images. So, if you want to see the pictures that Pietro sent to Clint through Snapchat, then you should check this chapter out on ao3! I'm under the same name, clintspietro, and it's ch. 19!


	20. Chapter 20

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

SAT 6 JUNE

The first thing Clint does when he arrives at the carnival is check himself over. And yeah, he's not usually a vain man, not really. Usually, he would just throw on some jeans and a plaid button-down for a date, but, according to Natasha, that's a big no-no. Clint's in the parking lot (adjacent to the carnival) when his phone buzzes twice in the silence, vibrating loudly on the console.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, Clint tries to smooth down the unruly, spiky bits of hair that just don't want to agree with him. He didn't put any gel in (rarely does, that's more Tony's forte) but he still tries to style it as much as possible, which fails miserably and it just ends up looking flat.

There's another sudden _bzz_ before Clint turns the mirror away and swipes his phone up.

 _[4:16PM]:_

 _i am running a little late_

 _[4:19PM]:_

 _babe?_

[4:26PM]:

Yeah? How late?

 _[4:28PM]:_

 _you are not already there waiting are you?_

[4:30PM]:

Yup. I just got here.

 _[4:33PM]:_

 _oh_

 _[4:35PM]:_

 _i am on my way xx  
_

[4:38PM]:

Cool. I'll keep an eye out for you. X

 _[4:40PM]:_

 _nervous?_

[4:42PM]:

Not as much as I thought I'd be. Why? Are you?

 _[4:45PM]:_

 _yes? what kind of question is that  
_

[4:46PM]:

You literally just asked me the exact same question.

 _[4:49PM]:_

 _well yes i am nervous_

[4:52PM]:

It'll be fine. I'll see you soon.

 _[4:53PM]:_

 _what are you wearing?_

[4:53PM]:

Seriously? You want to do that now?

 _[4:55PM]:_

 _do what? i want to know so i know who to look for_

[4:56PM]:

Oh ok. I'm wearing a red shirt.

 _[4:57PM]:_

 _what else_

 _[4:58PM]:_

 _or is it only the red shirt? ;-)_

[4:59PM]:

You're terrible. Red shirt, jeans and a leather jacket.

 _[5:01PM]:_

 _what color? the jacket_

[5:03PM]:

Black. What are you wearing?

 _[5:05PM]:_

 _you will have to wait and see_

[5:07PM]:

Don't take too long getting ready, or you'll miss out on all the rides. That's if you're tall enough to ride.

 _[5:09PM]:_

 _we will see xx_

Clint pockets his car keys, phone, and wallet. Lifting his hips up off of the seat, Clint shoves the faded leather wallet into the back left pocket of his jeans. He sits back down and flicks the switch on the radio to _OFF_ (he had been fiddling with it idly, in between Pietro's texts).

With his good hand, Clint smoothes down the front of his shirt, brushing away invisible wrinkles. The fingers on his right hand are still sore, but he buddy taped the worst of them-two, the index and middle-together earlier that day, while the third seems to have healed quite well, and quickly, compared to the others.

He hops down out of the truck, fumbles with his keys for a moment before he _finally_ gets the key in the damn lock, then twists.

Clint weaves through the rows of parked cars and navigates his way towards the fairground.

There's a lot of people-more than Clint expected, anyway-and he only hopes they won't be packed like sardines, though he can think of worse things than being pressed right up against Pietro's side. It's still light out, though Clint spots a few smudges of pink and orange in the sky.

He always loved the circus when it was dark; there was something almost hypnotic about it. The way the lights stayed on, and the rides continued to go around and around, and Clint felt like he didn't have a care in the world, like it didn't matter that he was a runaway orphan, he still _fit_.

Clint trudges up the small hill, finally crossing over from the parking lot to the fairground. He wanders around aimlessly, for a moment. Takes it all in: the smells, the sounds, the _lights_ (it feels like home, almost. Like a long-lost home he's only visiting). Clint passes through the first row of stalls. There's whack-a-mole. Skee-ball. Wedged in between those two stalls is one of many food stands. And, written in big yellow letters, it says:

 **NACHOS** | **CORN DOGS**

As tempted as he might be, Clint passes on the corn dogs. He probably wouldn't make a great first impression on Pietro if he had nacho-breath.

Everything is bright and colorful, and decked out with lights-all of the stalls, even the food stands-and Clint feels a burst of excitement, like he can't actually wait for Pietro to arrive. It might not be as extravagant as a travelling circus, and there probably won't be any lions, or elephants, but Clint still feels a little proud about it all.

Like being here will somehow show Pietro a glimpse into his past (a part of his part that he's actually proud of).

* * *

Clint's in the middle of buying a snow cone when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. It's not a text, he knows that immediately, because it just keeps _buzzing_. He pays the cashier, slips his wallet back into his pocket, then tries to juggle the snow cone in his right hand, while the left fumbles to reach his iPhone.

INCOMING CALL: Pietro

He accepts the call and balances the phone precariously between ear and shoulder. "Hey. Hello. You're not still running late, are you?"

Pietro's laugh echoes down the line.

It sounds a touch strained, like maybe he's a little nervous, but Clint just can't picture that. He's always so confident. So sure of himself, far more than Clint had been at that age, or at any age before it, really. Now? Now, Clint's probably just too old to really give a shit, and maybe that was how he found his confidence.

 _"No, I am here_." Pietro assures. _"Where are you?"_

"In the red shirt, remember?" Clint asks, voice partially muffled by the snow cone he's currently trying to stuff his face with.

 _"There have been plenty of men in red, but none of them have been you. I-what are you eating?"_

"Snow cone."

 _"Can I have some?"_

"Yeah, sure. If you find me before I find you," Clint says. "You can have the whole damn thing."

 _"Is this some sort of race?"  
_

"Sure is."

 _"What is at stake?"_

"Like I said," Clint says, then takes a bite out of the raspberry cone. "If you find me first, then you get the snow cone, and I don't get another bite of it. What do I get if I find you first? I told you what I'm willing to give up, so now it's your go. Oh, wait, there you are-I'm right behind you. I win."

Pietro's quiet, for a moment, before his voice returns to the phone. He sounds amused. _"Such a tease."_

"Made you look, didn't I?"

 _"You did."_

"So? What do I win when I find you?"

 _"I will find you first. How do I know this? Well, you just bought one of those snow cones, yes? Are you still close to the stall?"_

Clint pauses mid-lick. Then starts to briskly walk (not run, he's definitely not running) away from the stand. He kind of gave up his location already, inadvertantly. Still, Pietro's probably new-ish to town, and Clint's got the upperhand; he's lived here for _years_ , and has most likely been to more carnivals in town during that time than Pietro has in his entire life.

"Well, crap. You got me there. I'm right by the stand," Clint lies. "Come claim your prize."

 _"I can hear you running._

"I'm not-hey, nobody's running. And how can you _hear_ someone running? Do you have super hearing or something weird like that?"

Pietro snorts. _"No. You sound short of breath."_

"Maybe that's just what happens when I eat snow cones."

A full-body shudder washes over Clint when he passes by the stall with the Laughing Clowns (the heads rotate slowly, moving from side to side, and _shit_ , he forgot how creepy that was). There's a food stand selling roast corn, a ride called the _**TORNADO**_ which Clint's fairly sure Pietro will want to go on, and a row of kids lined up at the ring toss.

And then there's Pietro.

Just across the way, with his phone poised coolly to his ear, is Pietro. He's wearing one of those denim jackets with fleece sleeves and a hood, with a plain black v-neck shirt underneath that. His jeans are black, too. And his shoes are right out of that Snapchat picture that he sent to Clint only a couple of days ago: the black NIKE set, with a golden tick.

He hasn't seemed to have noticed Clint yet, and is happily chattering away into his phone.

 _"What kind of syrup will be on my snow cone?"_ Pietro asks, all smug and cocky, and Clint's _this_ close to laughing.

"Um. Raspberry. It's so good."

Pietro doesn't answer instantly. He's passing from stall to stall, a smile on his lips. His hair is even whiter in real life, Clint notices. It's pushed back off of his face, but when he leans forward, half-bent over a stall to inspect something, silver strands fall across his face and into his eyes.

 _"I have thought about it,"_ Pietro announces. _"About what I will give up, if I lose. A kiss."_

"What?" Clint asks, suddenly nervous.

And maybe it's because he's _actually_ there, and right there in front of him. He's real. Not a figment of Clint's imagination, or a picture saved to the gallery on his phone. He's real and he's gorgeous, and yeah, maybe Clint's a little more nervous than he initially let on, and Pietro-well, he seems like he's having a breezy time as he browses through the different stalls.

 _"Those are my terms,"_ Pietro says, and practically whispers into the phone, _"Come find me."_

Clint chokes on a mouthful of raspberry flavored ice. He ends the call, pockets his phone-which explains the look on Pietro's face, he looks stung, almost _hurt_ -and makes his way over to where Pietro's standing, and frowning down at his phone.

He gets halfway there when Pietro glances up casually, and just happens to catch his eye across the small crowd.

It feels like it takes too long to get there. Pietro's walking towards him slowly, looking a little dazed, but _happy_. And he's smiling like Clint's never seen before, but hopes to see again. Clint can't keep the smile off of his face either. They probably look _really_ stupid, like they are living in their own little private bubble, closed off from the world; time has slowed down, and its just the two of them, or something like that.

Clint can't bring himself to care about what it looks like.

There's a part of him that wants to break out into a sprint and wrap his arms around Pietro's neck, but Pietro beats him to it; he practically launches himself at Clint, winding his arms tight around Clint's neck and knocking the snow cone out of his hand. A small _oof_ falls from Clint's lips as the sheer weight of Pietro slams against him. He's taller than Clint imagined he would be (taller than Clint as well, but a lot of people are) and he smells _really_ good.

At first, Clint's dazed, or in shock, or _both_.

Then it kind of kicks in that Pietro's real, and clinging to him like an over-sized koala. Clint returns the hug and wraps his arms around Pietro's waist. He feels Pietro bury his face in the crook between Clint's neck and shoulder. It makes his hands shake a little. To have him so close, to know that he wants this, too.

"I was right." Clint murmurs. "You're really hard to miss. I'm glad I-"

Pietro pulls back suddenly, to look at Clint. It feels like all of the air has been punched out of his lungs. Whatever he was about to say is gone, and he's still smiling like an idiot, one hand bunched up in the front of Pietro's jacket, but he just can't bring himself to care. The arms around Clint's neck slowly unwind.

"You dropped your snow cone."

"That's-I'm okay with that."

Pietro nods, once. Then he's looking away, down at Clint's shirt. He sets a hand down on Clint's sternum, and spreads his fingers out wide, like he's testing if Clint's _real,_ and he needs to feel the heat radiating off of Clint's skin to prove that this isn't just an elaborate dream. The gesture makes Clint's heart do a really weird flip, but Pietro doesn't seem to notice.

"I finally found him." Pietro says. "My man in red."

"Yeah, you did." Clint says belatedly, his hand still gripping the front of Pietro's denim jacket. He's half convinced that if he lets go too soon, that Pietro will disappear into thin air. So he doesn't. "Which means you win, and I buy you a snow cone."

Pietro glances up, with a smirk on his lips. "I want blueberry flavored," he says. "Not raspberry. Lead the way."

"Anything you want."

With only a little reluctance, Clint uncurls his hand from where it was bunched in the front of Pietro's jacket, and steps away. It seems that Pietro's just as hesitant, as he slowly slides his hand off of Clint's chest. At least he's not the only jittery one. It seems that Pietro can't quite stop staring at him either, no matter how much he tries, he keeps staring at Clint with that look.

Something like awe, or wonder. Clint lets his shoulder graze against Pietro's as they walk in the direction of the stand that sells snow cones. He keeps stealing small, hurried glances at the younger man, like he's afraid of being caught out (it hasn't quite settled in that he's allowed this: to look, to cherish, to commit to memory).

And then Pietro's hand slides into Clint's own, their fingers tangling together, and Clint feels himself calm down significantly.

He orders a raspberry snow cone for himself, a blueberry one for Pietro. They find an unoccupied bench to sit on, near the Teacups ride. It's a rather large, wooden bench, with plenty of room. Still, they sit as close as possibe, pressed up against each other shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh.

Clint's in the middle of explaining to Pietro exactly what he did in the circus-there was no lion taming, or elephant riding, or anything involving flames, for Clint, much to Pietro's disappointment-when he notices how blue Pietro's lips have turned, from the syrup. He looks between Pietro's eyes, to his lips, then back up again.

And when he meets Pietro's gaze, he sees that the younger man has his eyebrows raised at Clint, and there's that familiar shit-eating grin on his face, like he knows something that Clint doesn't, or maybe he's caught Clint doing something he shouldn't.

It's unnerving. And it makes Clint shovel the rest of the snow cone into his mouth at once.

"Well?"

"Um-what?" Clint says, swallows. "Where was I?"

"I think," Pietro says, in between taking bites of his 'blue icy cone' as he called it. "You were staring at my mouth. _That_ is where we were."

"Your lips are blue. Like _really_ blue."

"Are they?"

"Yeah. You look like you kissed a smurf."

Pietro's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Clint notices that it's also blue. He hides a smile behind his hand, which leads to Pietro kicking at his shin playfully. Clint laughs, and then Pietro's laughing along with him, all blue lips and tongue and _teeth._ It helps alleviate some of the tension-if there even is any, Clint might be making it up in his head-and Clint just really likes seeing Pietro's smile.

"Your lips," Pietro says, and nods in the direction of Clint's mouth. "Are pink. Very pink, almost red."

"Oh yeah? Who'd I kiss to get a mouth like this?"

Pietro's mouth opens, as if to answer, and then he's leaning closer into Clint's space, a hand on his thigh and his lips pressed flush against Clint's own; it's cold, yet sweet, and over far too quickly. He pulls back a fraction, pupils blown wide, lips still _seriously_ blue.

The kiss leaves Clint dizzy, lips tingling, heart hammering away against his ribcage.

"I know you saw me first." Pietro says, matter-of-factly. He doesn't move his hand from where it rests on Clint's thigh. "And even if you didn't, and I won, I still wanted that. To be the one to kiss you."

"How'd you know? That I saw you?"

Pietro shrugs, and his smile turns coy. "I turned and I saw you looking at me like that," he says. "Like you are now."

"Like what?"

"It was like you thought I might disappear."

"Sorry, it's just-I can't wrap my head around this. Around you. I feel like I'm gonna wake up."

"You're overthinking this," Pietro's voice is gentle, as he moves his hand from Clint's thigh to cup his jaw. "I won't leave. I am here, and I would like to kiss you again. If you would like to. And then I would like to go on some of the rides. That is if _you_ are tall enough to join me."

Clint leans into the touch and presses his lips to the inside of Pietro's wrist. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Which part?"

"All of it. Especially that part where you said you wanted to kiss me again."

"Oh, so you liked that?" he asks, smirking. "Well, somebody has to warm my lips up, no? So blue. So cold."

"Mmm. They felt cold."

Pietro shivers suddenly, and it's so fake and unconvincing that it makes Clint's eyes crinkle with laughter. Then, he actually goes _brrrr_ like that's supposed to somehow make the whole act a little more believable. Clint kisses the inside of Pietro's wrist once more, because he's just too cute and Clint would regret _not_ doing it.

"Ah, not-not there."

"What, that didn't warm you up? C'mere."

Clint takes Pietro's face in his hands and kisses him. It's intoxicating (everything about Pietro is, Clint's starting to learn).

It's slow and unhurried. Tentative, in a way that most first (second) kisses are. At least, in Clint's experience. It doesn't last-because this is still a first date, and Clint has no intention of taking it any further-but it's _so_ good while it does. Pietro's lips are soft and sweet, and _still_ cold, and he tastes like blueberries.

When they pull apart, Pietro's eyes are blown wide again, and there's something knowing in his smile.

"All warmed up now?" Clint asks.

Pietro nods, mouth blue and only a little kiss-swollen. He bumps his shoulder against Clint's playfully. "What now?"

"Now," Clint says. "I let you drag me around the carnival, and we do whatever you want."

That seems to spark something up inside Pietro, and Clint gets the distinct feeling that he's probably going to regret this.

Pietro rises from the wooden bench suddenly. He gathers up the rubbish from their snow cones, chucks it in the nearest trash can, then returns to Clint with an outstretched hand. He wriggles his fingers impatiently, so Clint accepts the offer and allows Pietro to pull him to his feet.

"What first?" Clint asks, only a little cautious.

"You will conquer your fears." Pietro says, then tugs Clint back in the direction of the game stalls and food stands.

"Totally not ominous and cryptic at all. Like not even a little. That's totally what people say on first dates. What's that even mean?" Clint frowns. "My fears? Of what, small spaces? Pickles? Gonna throw me in the trunk with a jar of-oh, no. You wouldn't." he adds, practically hisses the words, but Pietro's still smirking and yeah, Clint knew he was going to live to regret the offer of ' _we do whatever you want_ '.

* * *

"This?" Clint asks, unimpressed. "Seriously?"

Pietro nods and nudges Clint towards the stall. It's not too busy, thankfully, and there's enough space for them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The outside of Pietro's jacket brushes up against Clint's own, which is kind of distracting, but it's not enough to make Clint forget how much he hates clowns.

Which means he gets the ugliest looking clown, naturally.

It looks about as horrified as Clint feels: wide-eyed, mouth agape. Clint's not going to be forgetting _that_ face anytime soon, not with those black, beady eyes, and the red blood-like smudges around its gaping mouth. There's a pointy blue and white hat atop its head.

Clint flicks it in the eye, and is quietly relieved when it doesn't react. Beside him, Pietro's quietly shaking with laughter, and doing a very poor job of hiding that behind the sleeve of his jacket. Without looking, Clint nudges him in between the ribs sharply, but that actually only makes Pietro laugh harder.

"Whatever. It's-this is nothing."

"Go ahead." Pietro encourages, and stretches across Clint to slip the stall attendant a couple of dollar bills. "My treat."

"You're not playing?" Clint asks.

"Not this one."

"Why not?"

"I'll play the next one."

"Alright. Which one do you want me to win?"

Pietro's hand slides around Clint's forearm and squeezes. He rests his chin on Clint's shoulder as they gaze up at the prizes: there are _so_ many on display, stacked up along the far wall, and dangling from the roof. There's a giant teddy bear holding a big red heart that Pietro glosses right over, before going straight for the ridiculously large Mike Wazowski plush toy.

It's big and green, and, quite frankly, a little hideous. Still, it's the one that Pietro wants, so Clint nods and asks, "How much for the ugly one-eyed green blob?"

"Twenty six points." the attendant says.

"Easy peasy."

"You will try to win that one for me?" Pietro asks, and his arm is still curled around Clint's arm, but he's no longer resting his chin on Clint's shoulder. "I like the smaller ones, too. Like that cat with the stripes. Or-or the octopus. I like that one."

"No, you don't. I'll win you the green blob."

Pietro ducks his head and presses a quick kiss to Clint's cheek, which totally throws Clint off his game (at least, that's what he tells Pietro _after_ ).

There are five balls and Clint has to somehow make sure they all go _exactly_ where he needs them to, which actually proves to be pretty difficult, since the clown insists on rotating its head creepily; left, right, then left again. Clint picks up the first and waits a second before feeding it into the mouth of the clown. It rolls down into the slot with the number four printed above it in bright yellow font.

"Not too bad." Clint murmurs. "I got this."

It probably doesn't help that the clown is ugly as fuck, and Clint kind of doesn't want to go anywhere near it. Black, bottomless pits stare back at Clint. He drops the next ball into its crimson-stained mouth and pulls his hand back as if he's been stung.

"Six," Pietro says, somewhere to Clint's left. "This is much better."

"It's creeping me out."

"What? Why? I think it's cute."

"You did _not_ just say that. It's literally just a head with shoulders. How's that cute? Pfft," Clint shrugs. "You think everything's cute."

"Not everything." Pietro teases, all sing-songy, and crap, that's _also_ distracting.

The third ball racks up another four, which is a little bit too low for Clint's liking. It doesn't bode well for Pietro and his beloved one-eyed Wazowksi plushie. With only two chances left, Clint has to score a twelve (by getting a six, both times, with the last remaining balls) or he'll miss the mark.

"I got this. Come on, gimme a six. My boyfriend wants the green thing," Clint says. "Lucky six. Come on."

Somehow, he actually lands the fucking _six_. Pietro bursts out cheering, and wraps an arm around Clint's neck, pulling him in for a hug. There's still one ball left, but Pietro's celebrating like Clint's already won. The attendant stares at them like they've probably lost their minds, but Clint just sinks into the hug.

He pulls away, a moment later, after pressing a kiss to Pietro's temple.

Clint picks up the final ball, but doesn't drop it yet. The clown head rotates slowly, angled more towards the right-above the points one, five and two, and Clint doesn't want any of those-so he waits, until it starts to turn back the other way. Clint drops it a fraction of a second too soon, and scores a pathetic three.

"Shit."

"This is still good." Pietro assures.

"Ugly ass clown. Threw me off my game. I almost had it, babe. I was three points off. _Three_." Clint whines.

It feels like a much bigger loss than it actually is. And it doesn't really help that the clown is still grinning-or silently screaming, it's a little difficult to tell the difference-at Clint, _mocking_ him for losing. Pietro pats his shoulder gently, then gestures for the attendant to come over to them.

"What can we get for, hmmm. How many was it? Twenty three points?" Pietro asks, with his hand still resting on Clint's shoulder.

Apparently there's a whole section of prizes and plushie toys available for twenty three points, and, Pietro, being the sweet little thing he is, says that Clint can pick. There's a fluffy purple T-Rex that Pietro can't stop pointing at, so Clint nods at that one. Pietro grips it tight in the hand that isn't holding onto Clint's own, as they move away from the Laughing Clown stall and fall back into the bustling crowd.

"You hungry?" Clint asks.

It's getting a little darker out now-the sky has dulled significantly, from when Clint first got here-and he almost checks his phone, just to see what time it is, but decides against it. He doesn't want to know if it's been an hour, or two. Doesn't want the date to be anywhere close to over.

"Not yet. Are you?"

"I'm good."

"I would like to go on that," Pietro says, and points in the general direction of the Ferris Wheel. "Not now, but later. Eventually."

"Sure, we can do that. Anything else on your list?"

Pietro catches Clint's eye and frowns slightly, puzzled yet still amused. "My list? And what list would this be?"

"You know," Clint shrugs. "The list of things you wanna do at a carnival. Like any rides that caught your eye-I saw one on the way in that I knew you'd love-or any games you haven't played before. Just stuff like that."

"Oh. Well, I would like to kiss you again."

"Is that on the list?"

"Mhmm. It is on there," he nods. "Twice. It is very urgent that I cross this off of my list."

"Twice?"

"Yes, twice."

"If it's on the list," Clint murmurs. "Then it's gotta be done. It _has_ to be." he says, then lifts Pietro's hand to his mouth and kisses it, lips grazing over Pietro's knuckles. "One down, one to go."

* * *

 _ **TORNADO**_ leaves Clint feeling a little light-headed and dizzy, but Pietro is totally unfazed by it. He clutches at Clint's arm as they stumble off of the ride and down the stairs, filtering back into the crowd. And that's when Clint notices what the wind and the ride has done to Pietro's hair.

It's glorious.

Windblown hair actually suits Pietro. It's all over the place, sticking up at the back and smoothed down at the front.

Clint pretends to spit into his hand to flatten the spiky bits down, but Pietro swats his hand away and wrinkles his nose in disgust, giving Clint a playful shove backwards. He looks for the closest reflective surface to fix his hair in, and that just happens to be a funhouse mirror.

It's the first of three mirrors, all lined up in a row.

Pietro grows about twice in size. He's tall and lanky, yet he somehow manages to pull that look off as well. Clint jogs up behind him and joins him at the mirror. He's pleased to see that he also shoots up in size, and is nearly taller than Pietro (it shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does).

The next mirror exaggerates certain features; Clint's nose grows several inches longer, while Pietro's entire face distorts and takes on a crescent-moon shape that has Clint doubling over with laughter and clutching at his sides.

He's still laughing as they shuffle along to the third and final mirror. Nothing seems to change, at first.

And then Clint steps closer, and he's suddenly a lot smaller, whereas Pietro's height barely changes. It's the groove of the mirror, and Clint just happens to be standing in just the right (or maybe the wrong?) spot. Pietro's almost hysterical with laughter at how small Clint is. He comes up right behind Clint and winds his arms around his middle, squeezing lightly.

"So tiny, old man." Pietro says, voice shaking with laughter that he's not even trying to hide. "Look how _cute_ you are."

"Oh, please. You think everything's cute."

"Not everything."

"Right. Not everything, just clowns, mostly. And cats."

"And you," Pietro gives Clint's middle another soft squeeze. His chin is resting on Clint's shoulder once again. "Mostly you."

"I'm in my thirties. I'm not cute."

Pietro rolls his eyes fondly, which is hard to miss since they are both still facing the mirror, and then he ducks his head and kisses Clint on the cheek. It makes Clint's skin tingle, and he's not sure if he can ever get used to this. Clint relaxes in Pietro's hold, leaning more of his weight back against the younger man.

"Is something wrong?" Pietro asks, but he doesn't sound worried. His voice is low, and right by Clint's ear, "Afraid you will wake up?"

"Nope, it's not that. I'm just enjoying this. Being like this."

"Being tiny?"

"You're lucky you're cute, kid, because you're not that funny."

Pietro gasps, like he's _actually_ hurt. Clint turns around to face him, and is quietly relieved when Pietro doesn't unwind his arms or pull away, but instead just accomdates Clint's change of position by wrapping his arms around Clint's lower back. It's pretty snug, pressed chest-to-chest like this, but Clint's definitely not complaining.

"I am funny _and_ cute," Pietro says. "And a little hungry now."

"Ever had cotton candy before?."

"Is that the sugar on the stick?"

"Yeah. Let's go cross it off the list."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi, yes I did change the title of this story, even though I'm already 20 chapters in. I had a good reason: I liked this title better, so I'm going to stick with it. Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed the update!


	21. Chapter 21

SAT 6 JUNE

Pietro is fascinated with lights, Clint learns.

He keeps clutching at Clint's arm and squeezing, or tugging him in all sorts of directions just to get a better look; it's like he's never actually been to a carnival at night before, which he later confirms. All of the game stands and food stalls are decked out, and lit up with bright multi-colored lights.

It's a lot darker now. Colder, too, and Clint's suddenly glad that he remembered to wear a jacket.

The line for cotton candy is a bit longer than expected (they would've been here sooner, if it weren't for Pietro's sudden enthusiasm for the pretty lights, not that Clint's complaining because _oh_ , he's cute when he gets all excited like this).

He's also pretty fascinated with touching Clint.

There's nothing urgent or impatient about it. It's inquisitive, yet still tentative, like he's testing the boundaries. Texting rarely felt intimate, and although Skype calls were a little better, they've got nothing on this. On the feeling of Pietro's fingers tangled up with Clint's own, as they stand outside of the pastel pink truck that sells cotton candy on a stick.

Clint's definitely not complaining. He's never been much of a PDA man himself, but he's not opposed to it. Which is why he seeks out Pietro's hand to hold just as often, or drapes an arm over his shoulder as they browse through different stalls. It's like Pietro's making up for lost time.

"You've really never had this before?"

"Never. It's sugar, yes?"

"Oh, yeah." Clint nods. "About 99% sugar. They use food coloring and stuff in it, too. But it's mostly sugar."

And when Pietro's eyes widen (it's almost comical), Clint makes the executive decision to only buy _one_ cotton candy stick, because all that sugar might go straight to Pietro's head. Clint laughs and bumps the outside of his shoulder against Pietro's.

"Wanna share? It'll be romantic." he offers. "Or something."

"Do they come in different flavors?"

"Only one flavor, but different colors. We can get it in blue?"

"Then I will share." Pietro smirks.

"Yeah, you better. I've been hungry since I got here." Clint says. "I skipped lunch so I could stuff my face with cotton candy."

The small queue winds down, eventually. Clint orders one stick of cotton candy to share and passes it to Pietro. He's in the middle of pulling out his wallet when Pietro slides a twenty dollar bill to the cashier and winks over at Clint.

Clint smiles and stuffs his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans wordlessly. Pietro gathers up his change, then loops an arm through Clint's and steers him away from the pastel truck. Clint's not really sure where they're going (it seems a lot like they're wandering aimlessly, for the moment) but he doesn't really care about what's next, too caught up in the moment.

"That was supposed to be my shout. I mean, you already paid for the clown thing," he says, suppressing a full-body shudder. "Let me treat you."

Pietro shrugs, then tears a strip of cotton candy off of the stick and pops it into his mouth. "You treat me very well."

"What's the verdict? Love it? Hate it?"

The answer is pretty obvious, if Pietro's sudden groan is anything to go off. He stuffs another piece of blue cotton candy into his mouth and chews away happily, smiling over at Clint while he does. He tears a piece off, then gestures for Clint to open his mouth, and when he does, Pietro insists on feeding it to him.

It's all a bit sickeningly sweet, but Clint obliges him.

Maybe it's because it's Pietro, and Clint's always had a hard time refusing him anything (the truth, his feelings, and now _this_ ). Or maybe it's because he's enjoying this little slice of domesticity more than he thought he would.

They find a spot to sit on a small hill away from the hubbub of the carnival. Clint pats down the grass first, just to make sure it isn't damp, before Pietro joins him. It's a pretty sweet view; not quite overlooking the carnival, but the lights look amazing from where they're sitting, like not so distant stars blinking in the darkness. The Ferris Wheel looks especially awesome, Clint notes.

Pietro continues to feed them both strips of cotton candy, content to sit there and stargaze.

It's quiet for what feels like a long moment, but it's not an awkward pause, more of a silent reflection. Clint picks at the blades of glass idly, feeling a prickle of something like nervousness. He quashes that down and turns to look at Pietro, resting a hand on his knee lightly.

"Don't tell me I got you hooked on cotton candy," Clint says. "You've had sugar before, right? Wanda's not gonna kill me, is she?"

"This is very good."

"Yeah, it is."

"She will not kill you." Pietro says belatedly.

"We'll see. She's pretty scary."

Pietro scoffs, then stuffs another piece of cotton candy in his mouth. "She is not so scary." he says. "You will see that, once you know her like I know her. She is protective of me, yes. We only had each other."

"You don't-I didn't mean to bring that up. Not tonight."

"Then we will talk of something else." Pietro suggests.

"Why blue?" Clint asks, then elaborates: "Your clothes. Your curtains. Lots of stuff in your room was blue. Yeah, I heard it. That sounds weird. I just mean, you seem to like it. A lot. You wanted a blue snow cone. Blue cotton candy. Why?"

Pietro's shoulders jerk upright in a weak attempt at a shrug. "Wanda says blue makes my eyes pop. They are also blue, if you haven't noticed."

"I noticed. It's-they're hard to miss."

"Careful, old man. That sounds like a compliment."

"That's 'cause it is," Clint says. "You didn't really answer my question. About why you like it so much, and not just 'cause it makes your eyes 'pop'. There's gotta be another reason."

"What is your favorite color?" Pietro asks, picking idly at the cotton candy stick. "That is if you have one. Do you?"

"Purple."

"Why that color?"

"I don't know." Clint admits, rubbing at the back of his neck, for want of something to do. "It just is."

"It just _is_." Pietro parrots. "I like that. Something just is, so let it be. You don't need to have an answer for everything."

"Maybe you're right."

Pietro smiles, then gives Clint's cheek a gentle pat. "I often am." he says.

He offers the cotton candy stick to Clint, even though there's not much left on it. It's been stripped away almost completely by Pietro's deft fingers, but Clint still tears a small piece off and chews; it's sweet, but not too sugary, and when Pietro leans in and kisses him suddenly, his lips taste of it.

Clint's pretty sure he's never going to get used to _that_.

He's a little flustered, when Pietro pulls back to look at him with those gorgeous blue eyes (and ridiculously long, dark lashes). Clint's dreamt of this, of course. Of this night, of being this close, but none of that compares to the real thing, to being able to reach out and actually touch Pietro.

Clint does it now, just because he can. He lifts a hand to Pietro's face and brushes his thumb along that sharp cheekbone.

"What was that for?" Clint asks.

"Does it have to be for something?"

"No, it doesn't. Doesn't have to be for anything." Clint says, and pauses to press his lips to Pietro's head briefly. "We should probably head back down. There's at least half a dozen toys down there with your name on 'em and it would be my genuine pleasure to win you the biggest, ugliest one."

Clint rises from the ground, dusts off his pants, then offers his hand to a rather perplexed looking Pietro, who stares at Clint for what feels like a weirdly long moment before he accepts the outstretched hand. And then he kind of refuses to let go.

There's something playful in the set of his jaw, and the quirk of his lips. It makes that long lost fluttery sensation return to Clint's chest, and that feeling only seems to intensify as Pietro steps closer into Clint's space.

"Your lips are a little blue from the candy."

"I kissed a smurf."

"With tongue?" Pietro asks, amused.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you. The guy that inhaled a snow cone in two bites," Clint says. "Your entire mouth was blue."

"And now so is yours."

Smirking, Clint gives Pietro's arm a tug back in the direction of the carnival. "Yeah? I probably got that from you. Just can't keep your hands off me, can you? Look, you've got the rest of your life to flirt with me, and I've only got tonight to prove to you that I don't actually suck at carnival games, so get off of me."

"How could I resist such an offer?"

"You can't, so c'mon. Let's go win you some shit."

* * *

Balloon Darts goes better than expected, though Clint's not really surprised, he's always been really good at the game.

The only real difference between this game of darts and the countless others that Clint has played in seedy dive bars (and at home, he even has his own board) is that he usually doesn't have a warm, affectionate Pietro draped over him.

Still, he manages to score high enough in both rounds that he wins Pietro not just one ridiculously oversized plush toy, but _two_.

Which is how they end up trudging back in the direction of Clint's truck, with one of Pietro's arms wound tightly around his waist, while his free hand grips onto the orange paw of an obnoxiously large Garfield; it has a bright red fire helmet, and, for some odd reason, an eyepatch.

Clint has to admit that it's kind of cute.

But he likes the other toy better. It's one of the Little Green Men squeezy toys from Toy Story, and it's also massive. It could probably be used as a pillow, Clint says, as they navigate through the parking lot. He sinks a little further against Pietro, relishing in the feeling of an arm around his waist.

It takes a few minutes for Clint to locate his truck. To be fair, the lot wasn't this crammed when he first arrived.

Once they find the (faded) red pickup, Clint pats down his pockets for his keys. He unlocks the truck, drops the three-eyed green blob on the passenger seat, and then makes a gesture for Pietro to pass Garfield over so Clint can lock it up safely.

Pietro, however, seems reluctant to do so.

"I'm not stealing your toys, babe. They're yours." Clint says, "It's just for now, so you don't have to carry them around all night, or worry about somebody stealing them. Garfield's gonna be just fine in here, and so will the little green dude."

"It's not _that_." Pietro says, thickly accented.

"Okay. So what is it?"

"I don't have a ride home."

"That's all? I'll give you a lift, it's no trouble." Clint shrugs. "Is that why you're all," he says, and makes a vague gesture to Pietro's face. "Frowny?"

Pietro rolls his eyes, then shoves the fluffy orange toy at Clint's chest.

"What's his name?" Clint asks.

"He already has a name."

"Garfield? Yeah, that's original."

"Then what would you name him?" Pietro asks, eyebrows raised. "You are not so good with naming things."

Instead of dignifying that with an answer (because, _rude_ ) Clint boops Pietro on the nose with one of Garfield's paws, and they both burst out laughing. Clint turns and stretches, dropping the plushie onto the seat next to the three-eyed, football-shaped alien. He locks up the truck, pockets his keys, then turns to Pietro.

"See? Everybody's happy. You'll get 'em at the end of the night, so-actually, you still look a little frowny. C'mere. I can help with that."

Clint drapes an arm over Pietro's shoulder, and the younger man slots in right against his side. He's only just taller than Clint, by an inch or two, but the angle isn't awkward. It isn't awkward, when Pietro curls his arm around Clint's back, and his hand rests right above Clint's hip.

It's like Pietro's trying to squish them as close as he can, as close as physically possible.

"Better?" Clint asks, and Pietro nods.

There isn't much of a walk, between the parking lot and the fairground. Clint's in the middle of telling Pietro yet another story-something about a mishap during one of the shows, involving fire, this time-when he notices Pietro looking at him, in a certain way.

Kind of like the way Pietro had described earlier, when Clint was looking at him like he was going to disappear.

Then he looks away, almost shyly. Clint doesn't comment on it. He smiles, carries on with his story, and keeps an arm looped around Pietro's shoulders.

Clint can't get over how easy it feels.

He almost wants to ask what took them so long to get here, but doesn't. Maybe it was Clint being afraid. Scared of feeling the sting of heartbreak, or waking to an empty bed and an empty house all over again. The only thing that matters is Clint's here, and so is Pietro, and he can't think of a single place he'd rather be.

Pietro is pressed snug up against Clint's side, and it's cosy and _warm_ , and nice. Clint almost hates to break away from that, but an idea comes to him:

"So," Clint asks. "How good are you with a gun?"

* * *

"But I don't _want_ to shoot it."

"It's not a real duck." Clint explains. "It's made out of tin. The goal is to shoot as many as possible, and then-"

Pietro scoffs, and his entire face is scrunched up in that ' _I'm so not into this. Like at all. And I'm not even going to act like I give a shit'_ way of his, like that one time Clint suggested they watch M*A*S*H reruns and Pietro wouldn't even pretend like he was enjoying himself.

"That is not a very romantic question to ask," Pietro says. It sounds like he's amused, not angry. "For our first date you ask me if I am good with a gun."

"Well, are you?"

"No, but that is not the point."

Clint watches as Pietro's mouth quirks up at the corners, it's almost like he's fighting a smile. There's something cheeky about his gaze-Clint's starting to learn that he's inherently cheeky, it's one of his personality traits-and Clint can't help but be drawn closer, closer into Pietro's space.

"I'll teach you." Clint offers.

"To shoot things? Tempting, but I think I will pass."

"Not real things. Those ducks are made of tin, and that's not even a real gun. It's a BB gun. It shoots pellets, not bullets."

"And you will show me how to do this?"

"Yeah, maybe. If you ask me real nicely."

Pietro sizes Clint up and down noticeably. He's smirking now, with both arms folded across his chest. "And if I don't ask nicely?"

"Then you can teach yourself."

"You go first." Pietro says.

"Why me?"

"I want to see what you can do."

"There's not much to it." Clint says, with a shrug. Then he steps around Pietro to reach for the BB gun.

It's slender and black, and tied to the stall so that it can't be stolen. There's enough _give_ on the wire cord for Clint to step back and fall into a proper stance. Pietro's up in his space, suddenly. Crowded right up behind him, so close that Clint can feel the exhale of each breath on the back of his neck.

And the lightest of touches on his lower back.

Pietro's hand lingers on Clint's back, for a moment. So light it's almost not there at all. It's distracting, to say the least. Clint shifts his weight from foot to foot, and Pietro's hand disappears suddenly, but his voice remains, still close and low, and _teasing_.

"So this is the part where you show off," Pietro murmurs. "To impress me. Win me something good, old man."

Clint nods, and readjusts his grip on the pellet gun. There's a never-ending cycle of ducks on rotation: bright yellow, with colorful targets painted onto the middle of each. He lifts the BB gun, aims, then fires.

He hits two ducks in succession, then a third. _Tink, tink, tink_. The sound of pellets hitting tin echoes through Clint's ears, and makes him cast a sideways glance in Pietro's direction, a little cocky and kind of proud of himself.

Though it's no surprise that he's good with a gun, even a BB at a carnival. He was on the force, after all. And before that-a _really_ long time before that, almost two decades ago-he and Barney would line beer bottles and tin cans up along the fence, and bet on who could knock the most down.

Clint won most of the time, except when he was having an off day. Today, however, is definitely not an off day. There's a brief pause between the fourth and fifth duck, then Clint fires at the sixth. He's not really sure what the points add up to (the scores are painted on the back of the ducks) but he's pretty sure six consecutive hits is good.

He sets the BB gun down on the counter, and looks to the attendant. "What's that get me? Gotta be good, right?"

The attendant-who has bright red hair, a lip piercing, and is wearing a pair of Groucho glasses-directs Clint towards the opposite end of the tent, where there are countless prizes strung up along the wall.

"Which one do you want?" Clint asks, leaning closer towards Pietro. The younger man looks to him, surprised, then opens his mouth as if to protest, but Clint shakes his head. "Just-whatever one you like, I'll get. So go ahead. Which one is it?"

"I like the orange fish."

"We'll take the Nemo." Clint says, pointing out the clownfish to the attendant. She unhooks the bright orange fish off of the rack and hands it over to Clint, who then moves to hand it over to Pietro, but the younger man holds both hands up in the air and refuses to take it.

"I want you to teach me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to win something."

Clint considers that, then nods. "Alright. I'll just set this little guy down right here," he says, more to himself than Pietro, and places Nemo down on he counter of the small, trading it over for the BB gun. Clint gestures for Pietro to come closer, and he does, and he's brimming with excitement.

"How do I hold it?" he asks.

Rather than tell, Clint shows him. He siddles right up behind him, kicks his feet apart just a little, and grips his elbow, gentle but firm.

He guides Pietro until his stance is good, and he's holding the BB gun properly (the first time he picked it up, he turned it sideways like he was some kind of gangster, and that had Clint in stitches). Clint steps away. There isn't much to it, beyond stance and aim.

Pietro misses the first duck, hits the second, then grazes the third _._

 _Barely_.

The next three shots are hurried, impatient.

It turns out Pietro's not a natural at this, which really seems to bug him. He slaps a couple of bills down on the counter and buys himself a second round. Clint jumps in when Pietro's four pellets down and still hasn't hit another duck.

"You're not so great at this, which is weird. It's probably the only thing you're not good at." Clint says, and slots in behind Pietro, his chest pressing against Pietro's back. "I still have to teach you how to throw a dart properly, otherwise it'll keep me up at night. You'll get the hang of this."

"I hit _one_." Pietro says, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know. You did good for your first time."

Clint peers over Pietro's shoulder, down the barrel of the gun, and at the row of moving ducks. He moves his arm, so it's lined up right next to Pietro's. Clint's hand comes to rest atop of the younger man's. It's close. Snug, even. Just like earlier, except it's not just nice, it's necessary.

This way, he can guide Pietro's hand.

This way, he-

Pietro fires and hits the duck _right_ in the center, knocking it straight back. He takes out another, and Clint's still pressed up against him, his body bracketing Pietro's arm. Once he's out of pellets, Pietro sets the BB gun down, and turns to Clint with a triumphant smile.

"Look at you," Clint says, and smoothes a hand down the front of Pietro's jacket. "You did good. Nice work."

"Well, I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yeah, you could've." Clint argues. "And you did."

"Perhaps, but I didn't want to. It was more-"

"You can have anything from this section." the attendant announces, indicating towards a very, well, _small_ section of prizes.

There's not much on offer, not really, and Clint nearly feels a pang of guilt at that. He glances over the prizes: a pair of Groucho glasses, identical to the pair the stall attendant is wearing. One of those rubbery, hand-shaped slap toys that are sticky and Tony somehow always seems to have one, and not much else. Pietro's eyes are narrowed in a way that's almost critical.

"How many can he have? It's gotta be worth more than one prize, 'cause these are _tiny._ " Clint says, and feels Pietro's hand slide into his own.

"Three items." she says.

"I will take the glasses with the nose and eyebrows."

"Groucho glasses." Clint chimes in.

"Grouch like grumpy?" Pietro asks, frowning.

"There was this guy that wore glasses just like that. I mean, exactly like that. His name was Groucho, so they named the glasses after him." Clint says. "He was the only thing that made my old man laugh."

"Oh. Was he funny like you?"

"Not exactly like me, no." Clint smirks. "I never made my old man laugh."

Pietro glances up at Clint. There's a furrow to his brow, and his lips are downturned just slightly, and that tells Clint that whatever he's said, it's pitiful. It makes Pietro's eyes linger on him. Makes his grip on Clint's hand tighten, before he looks away.

"I will take the two bracelets." he says, shifting his attention back onto the red-haired woman. "The purple one and the blue one."

The attendant hands the prizes over, and collects the Nemo from the opposite end of the tent (it was still sitting on the counter, right where Clint left it). Pietro pockets both of the bracelets without so much of a glance in Clint's direction, then passes over the Nemo, and, lastly, he puts the glasses on.

Clint's barely able to contain his laughter, as they walk away from the stall. Pietro's not even a little embarassed and Clint kind of gets why: he's really rocking the glasses, ridiculous eyebrows and all. It's weird, how he can make something like _that_ look not half as bad as it had before.

"Just-never change." Clint says. "You look good."

"Mm? You like the nose?"

"Oh, yeah. The moustache is my favorite part."

Pietro bumps his shoulder against Clint's playfully. "Oh? And what about the eyebrows?"

"I'll learn to live with them. You and your eyebrows."

Clint's stomach hasn't hurt this much from laughing in a really long time. He's practically shaking with it, by the time Pietro pulls him away from the crowd and kind of just off to the side, next to the stand that sells Roast Corn.

And he's _still_ wearing the glasses, which kind of undercuts the semi-serious look on his face.

"God, you're ridiculous."

Pietro's mouth quirks up at the corner. "Am I?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time." Clint says. "But I'd still kiss you, if that's what you dragged me over here for. Is it?"

"That isn't why."

"You're a little frowny again. What's up?"

"I want you to remember tonight."

"Ouch. I'm not _that_ old, so my memory isn't that bad."

Pietro reaches for Clint's hand suddenly-not the one that's gripping Nemo by the fin, but the injured one-and lifts it up gently. Only two of the three injured fingers are buddy taped together, which Clint considers a win. Pietro, however, looks less enthused, like he's only just remembering Clint's little fall.

"I wanted to give you something." Pietro says, and produces one of the bracelets from the pocket of his leather jacket.

It's made of nylon rope and it's blue, of all colors. Pietro gingerly slips the bracelet onto Clint's hand, first going over the buddy taped fingers. He tightens it a little (the bracelet is adjustable, and actually pretty cute) then drops his hand away from Clint's.

At first, Clint doesn't really know what to say. His chest feels all strangely tight, but nice. Warm, and still tight, like that fluttery sensation of nerves, but not quite. It's something different. Something that makes Clint want to take Pietro's face between his hands and kiss him.

"But blue's your color." Clint blurts out.

"Yes, but it can also be yours. I want you to keep it."

"I-you didn't have to do this. Give me this. It's nice." he says, and traces a finger along the edge of the bracelet. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the purple one around Pietro's own wrist, and reaches out to touch it. "We match."

Pietro nods slowly. "I have your color and you have mine."

"God, you're sweet."

And, of course, the only appropriate response to that is Pietro rolling his eyes. He does it in that way of his that's fond and affectionate. "Not always, no. But I will have to try harder for my boyfriend now, won't I?" he says, smiling.

"Oh, right." Clint nods along. "I forgot about that."

"Forgot what? That I was your boyfriend?"

Pietro looks considerably less fond now. Less pleased, too. Clint leans in closer, stretches forward to peck Pietro on the lips, before he steps back. "Not that. The other thing. About how I was supposed to be trying harder to for my boyfriend. So, come with me. I've got an idea."

"The last time you said that it involved guns."

"Not _actual_ guns. Are you always this dramatic? Wait, don't answer that. I already know that the answer's yes. Yes, you are."

"Are we going somewhere today, old man?" Pietro asks. "Or will you just keep up this rambling?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, Quicksilver."

"Where are we going?"

"Feel up to conquering your fear?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Pietro's afraid of horses, btw. Thanks for all the feedback! ❀


	22. Chapter 22

Clint | **Wanda**

* * *

SAT 6 JUNE

"This?" Pietro asks, and he doesn't just sound unimpressed, he looks it. He's leaning up against Clint's side, arms folded across his chest. "This is what you meant, when you said it was time I conquered my fear? These are not real horses."

"Yeah, well, those weren't real clowns." Clint argues weakly.

And then he kind of wishes he hadn't.

Clint swears there's an audible click, as the lightbulb inside of Pietro's head switches on. _This_ , Clint thinks, _isn't going anywhere good_. There's something devious about the way he pulls himself out of Clint's grasp and turns to face him, lips curved into a wicked smile.

"I saw some real clowns earlier."

"No, you didn't."

"I did."

"You were just seeing things." Clint says, and pats Pietro on the cheek. "It's-no, that was the cotton candy. It does that."

Pietro's laugh bubbles over and spills out between them. He seems pretty pleased with himself, if that big grin plastered across his face is anything to go by. Clint gives his shoulder a slight shove and walks away, towards the carousel. Closer and closer, until he's standing on the opposite side of the metal fence that serves as a barrier, watching the horses go by.

And maybe he should be surprised, when Pietro comes up behind him and presses his chest to Clint's back, crowding him up against the small fence, but he isn't. Not even a _little_. Maybe he should be startled, when Pietro's arms reach out and grip the barrier on either side of Clint, boxing him in.

But he isn't.

It's snug and maybe a little unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Clint exhales, and feels a _lot_ of tension seep out of his body; he leans back slightly, oddly relaxed and at ease in Pietro's arms (at least, more than he thought he would be on a first date). He almost wants to sink back further and chase the warmth that is rolling off Pietro in waves, but doesn't. His jacket provides enough protection and warmth against the cool air.

The carousel is brightly lit - adorned with beautiful carvings, mirrors and intricate paintings. Back when he was with the circus, Clint's favorite pastime was to come and watch the carousel of a night. There was something about it that Clint always found soothing.

Behind him, Pietro shifts a little, but doesn't move away. His arms still bracket Clint's body on either side. When he leans in closer, his breath ghosts over Clint's neck. "Our mother, she had a music box just like this carousel, only...smaller. It made beautiful music."

"Is that where your fear of horses comes from?"

"No," Pietro says. "It was the only horse I was not afraid of."

 _Because it was miniature_ , Clint thinks, but settles on: "What kind of music did it play?"

"The kind without any words. It was like a lullaby." he says warmly. "When I had bad dreams, my mother would play it. Sometimes it was the only thing that could put me to sleep. It sounded just like _that_."

"Sounds real nice." Clint says gently. "You still have it now?"

"No, I don't. Which one do you want to go on?"

Clint's curiousity almost gets the better of him, but he gets the distinct feeling that Pietro's done with this conversation, for now. Instead of pressing it any further, Clint puts a pin in it and shifts his gaze back out to the carousel; it's bursting with color and noise and _life._

"How 'bout the chariot?" Clint suggests, as it passes them.

It's the only one like it on the carousel, and it's elaborately designed, with two finely carved horses placed in front, as if they were drawing the chariot around. Pietro answers with a low hum, and a shake of his head.

They stand in silence, for a moment. Countless horses glide by, decorated with fancy saddles, tassels and even jewels, in some cases. The most elaborate designs are always on the horses facing the audience. Clint cranes his head back to glance at Pietro from over his shoulder.

He's still so close, and, somehow, his eyes look brighter. It's almost like they're sparkling, which is ridiculous, of course. Because eyes don't glisten like _that_.

"Which one do you want?" Clint finally manages.

"Is there a difference? They all look the same to me."

Clint turns back around, and glances out over the carousel. The ride is starting to slow down now, _gradually_.

"There's a little difference. See that brown one, right there? They're called jumpers," Clint explains. "They move up and down, but there's not as many of 'em. If you want a jumper, you might have to fight for it. Game of Thrones style, until the death. Standers are more common, if you wanna avoid conflict."

"Standers?" comes Pietro's slightly amused voice, from somewhere over Clint's shoulder. "So they just _stand_ there?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What about that one?" Pietro asks, and points at one of the pale horses that has its head craned back, staring up at the ceiling of the carousel.

"That's a stargazer."

"What does it do?"

"See how the head's positioned? The nose is pointing _up_ , so it's stargazing. Looking up." Clint says. "Like what we were doing earlier."

Pietro mulls that over, then ducks his head and pecks Clint on the cheek. He's gone a moment later, arms falling away, and Clint finds that he immediately misses the warmth, the contact. He turns to face Pietro, who is bouncing on his feet impatiently.

Or excitedly, it's kind of hard to tell the difference.

"I want the one that moves." he tells Clint. "Not the one that stands, or the stargazer. The one that goes up and down."

Once the ride comes to a halt and the children slowly filter off, Clint and Pietro jump in the small queue. It almost feels a little embarassing, for a _long_ moment there, to be the only person over thirty in the line, but Pietro's got this way about him where he just puts Clint at ease, even with something as simple as a smile.

It turns out he's actually pretty good at making Clint smile; he doesn't even need to try _that_ hard. It comes naturally to him, just like everything else-well, not everything, not _darts_ -seems to. Clint's caught himself smiling, more than once, for no particular reason other than he was just genuinely _happy_.

Clint pats down his pockets, as the carousel empties out.

He's only got his mobile, keys and wallet in the pockets of his leather jacket. He stashed the prizes in the truck earlier, along with the Groucho glasses. Pietro stayed and checked himself out in the fun house mirrors, snapped a couple of pictures, then left and bought two bottles of cold water, or that's at least what he told Clint he got up to.

But then Clint got back from his little trip to the truck and he kissed Pietro by way of greeting, and his lips tasted overly sweet, like ' _I just inhaled an entire stick of cotton candy while you were gone'_ type of sweet. Clint isn't sure whether he's impressed, or terrified of what _that_ much sugar can do to a person.

Pietro admits to nothing, of course. And denies everything with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The carousel clears out quickly enough, and once the very last kid climbs off and rushes down the stairs, the attendant begins ushering small groups through the gate. Clint loses sight of Pietro pretty soon after that; they pass through the gates together, climb the stairs together, but once they step up onto the platform, Clint glances over and Pietro's _gone_.

And then he spots the younger man out of the corner of his eye, and almost bursts into a fit of laughter when he sees it: Pietro rushing to grab a jumper. Clint nabs the horse next to Pietro's, and doesn't really care what kind it is.

It doesn't matter if it goes up and down, or if it doesn't move at all. Clint just wants to be next to Pietro, who is brimming with joy. He can't wipe the grin of smug satisfaction off of his face. Clint shakes his head and looks away, down at his horse; it's a stargazer, chestnut brown, while Pietro's is pale and _really_ regal looking. He glances back up at Pietro a beat later.

Someone of his size-muscle, because _wow_ , he's way more built than Clint remembered-should look a little ridiculous, perched up on such a tiny horse. But he doesn't. Pietro lifts a hand and cards it back through his pale hair, brushing the long strands back off of his face.

He catches Clint's eye suddenly, just like he did the first time, across a bustling crowd. There's a moment where Clint feels warm, like he's been caught doing something that he shouldn't be doing, and then he remembers he's allowed to look.

"Happy?" Clint asks, leaning back a little. He grips the pony hanger (the pole that each horse is mounted on) and waits for the ride to start, and the music to kick in. "Got what you wanted, yeah? You look happy."

"Yes, I did." Pietro says, with a nod. "And I _am_ happy."

"Really got lucky, didn't you? I get the scary as shit clowns, and you get, well, _this_. It's nice. Nothing creepy about it."

Pietro lifts one shoulder, shrugging weakly. Then wets his lips, and his eyes don't stray from Clint's. "I think I'm lucky. Don't you? I have all those prizes, I have _you_."

Smiling, Clint glances away, almost coyly. "Yeah. It's been pretty great." he admits. "Guess we both got lucky."

The carousel comes to life suddenly, cutting off whatever response had been on the tip of Pietro's tongue; his horse starts to move up and down slowly, in time with the rhythym of the music, and Clint wants to remember that look for as long as he can.

His own horse does nothing flashy, but Clint's content to sit and talk idly with Pietro, who is _still_ grinning from ear to ear.

Pietro reaches out and stretches, eager to tangle his fingers with Clint's. Then he gives Clint's hand a sharp, pointed tug in his direction, like he expects Clint to join him, even though the carousel is still very much moving around and _around,_ and there really isn't enough room for both of them on one horse.

"Come on." Pietro urges, with a sly smile. He doesn't release his grip on Clint's hand. "Mine is much more fun."

"I don't know."

" _Please_."

Clint sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes, because _seriously_ , Pietro knows how to turn on the puppy dog eyes when he wants something.

"They're not built for, you know. Two. There's not enough room for me on there." he argues, but Pietro looks decidedly unconvinced.

"I'll make room."

"No, you won't, because-"

And then Pietro swings his legs over the side of his horse and hops off. He's a little unsteady on his feet, considering the platform is still spinning around (albeit at a slow, steady pace, but it's moving nonetheless). Clint thinks he hears the attendant yell something out, about not dismounting until after the ride has stopped, but Pietro just hops on the back of Clint's stargazer, squeezing right up against Clint's back.

He's stubborn as hell, Clint's decided. And also pretty damn cute, even when he tries to deflect with snarky comments and really shitty jokes. Actually, _especially_ when he tries to deflect with snarky comments and shitty jokes.

"Kid, you just gave up the best seat on the carousel." Clint says, acutely aware of how close Pietro is. "Why? It goes up _and_ down."

Pietro's voice is low and _sweet_ and right by Clint's ear, and he's pretty sure this isn't proper carousel etiquette. "What? That isn't the best seat. _This_ is. I gave it up for you."

"Why?"

It's a tight fit-two grown men on the same tiny horse-but it _works_. Maybe that's because Pietro's kind of like a koala, all snug and warm and clinging to Clint. He still keeps a little bit of distance though, and is quiet for what feels like a long moment before he finally answers.

"Because I like to be close to you." Pietro finally settles on, but is quick to add: "I can go back, if you want me to."

"No, stay." Clint answers, without even needing to think on it. "It's snug, but it's not the _bad_ kind of snug."

"Snug." Pietro says, like the word is new to him.

"Like, _close_."

"Oh. There is a bad kind of snug?

"Yeah, like bunking with Barney when we were kids. See, that was a bad kind of snug. And travelling with the circus," Clint says, and he feels like maybe he's rambling just a little, but Pietro doesn't seem to mind. "That was a different kind of close. Didn't even know where I was bunking, most of the time. Or _who_ I was bunking with."

Pietro makes a small hum, something like interest, maybe.

"Something you wanna ask me?"

"Are you happy?" Pietro asks bluntly. "You said that I look it. Happy. And you do, but people can _look_ like something, but not feel it."

"If you're waiting for that moment," Clint begins, craning his neck to get a better look at Pietro. "Where I freak out and I change my mind, then you'll just be waiting a real long time. I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I'm sticking around. Which means you're stuck with me."

"Am I?"

" _Very_ stuck."

Pietro makes another small hum, then smiles. "I think I can live with this. There are worse things."

"Worse things." Clint murmurs, then exhales a shaky laugh that dissolves between them. "What, like shoving a kid over to get the horse you want? 'Cause you looked like you were about to push that little girl over to get what you wanted."

"I didn't need to do _that_ to get what I wanted." he says.

Clint says nothing, just sinks back a little against Pietro and enjoys the carousel. He's fairly certain he's never going to forget _this_ , the feeling of Pietro's arm as it coils tight around his waist, somehow managing to pull them closer together.

"It's so I don't fall off the horse." he tells Clint. It's for _safety_ reasons

And when Pietro pulls out his phone, positions it in front of them and snaps a picture of the two of them crammed on the same tiny horse, he tells Clint that this is _also_ for safety reasons, but doesn't give much of an explanation beyond that. Clint's content enough to just ride it out. He even goes so far as to pose for at least half a dozen more photos.

* * *

It's well and truly night-time, when they line up for the Ferris Wheel. The line is fairly long, but there are a lot of carriages, which means they'll probably make it on for the next round, once the Wheel comes to a halt and all the carriages empty out. Clint's holding their spot in the line, while Pietro slips off to the bathroom.

The Wheel is lit up with bright, neon colored lights, blue and pink and _so_ many other shades in between.

He checks his phone (out of habit, and kind of bordeom. He gets restless, when Pietro's gone). There are two texts from Natasha, something about a surprise party that is no longer a surprise, and Clint really doesn't want _any_ part of that. He doesn't bother typing up a reply just yet, and instead brings up Wanda's number and sends off a hurried message.

[9:39PM]:

Hey, Wanda. I need a favor.

Clint's about to pocket his phone when he hears, and _feels_ , that distinct _bzz_. He pulls up Wanda's reply.

 **[9:42PM]:**

 **What is it?**

[9:43PM]:

It's not urgent. Not like a kidney, or anything life-threatening. I need a small favor. No rush.

 **[9:45PM]:**

 **Yes?**

[9:46PM]:

Is that a yes you'd give me a kidney? Or yes to the favor?

 **[9:48PM]:**

 **To the favor.**

[9:50PM]:

Nice to know where I stand.

[9:52PM]:

I'm kidding, in case that wasn't clear. Look I just wanted to ask you a favor. It's about your brother.

 **[9:54PM]:**

 **Oh?**

 **[9:56PM]:**

 **What did he do now?**

[9:58PM]:

Nothing?

[9:59PM]:

That I'm aware of, anyway. Apart from the cotton candy incident.

 **[10:01PM]:**

 **There was an incident?**

[10:03PM]:

Oh, yeah. Only minor. He's had sugar before, right?

 **[10:06PM]:**

 **Yes. So what is the favor?**

[10:07PM]:

He mentioned something about a music box that your mom used to have? It was like a carousel.

 **[10:09PM]:**

 **It was Pietro's favorite thing in the world.**

[10:09PM]:

What color was it?

Pietro's voice is so sudden, it startles Clint. He fumbles with his phone, but manages to lock the screen and slip it back into his pocket before Pietro pops up in front of him. He's smiling, and it soon becomes evident that he's grinning at Clint's jittery behaviour.

"What were you doing?" he asks, and narrows his eyes at Clint. Then he gestures at Clint's entire face. "You look all _frowny_."

"It's cute that you're trying to use my thing on me."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. And I'm so _not_ frowny."

"Oh? So what were you doing then? Messaging your other boyfriend?" Pietro's lips are twisted up in a smile, all cheeky and _daring,_ and Clint's really close to taking Pietro's face in his hands and kissing that smirk right off his face.

Clint blinks, then his brain catches up with Pietro's words, and he nods belatedly. "Oh, yeah. Yep. That was him. We're meeting up later tonight."

Pietro steps closer into Clint's space, still smirking. "I know you are teasing," he says. "But it still makes me jealous."

"There's nothing to be jealous about." Clint insists.

"I think I will need a little more convincing."

Clint balls one hand in the front of Pietro's jacket, tugs him closer. "Yeah? Guess I'll have to think real hard about how I can convince you." he says. "I'm not _that_ guy. I never was. I either commit, or I don't bother. There's no point in wasting someone else's time."

Something in Pietro's expression softens, and he fixes Clint with a small smile. Again, he looks like he might want to say something else, but he realizes it's time to board the Ferris Wheel, so he starts to pull Clint in _that_ direction, tugging him towards their carriage; it's bright cherry red and big enough to fit more than two people, but Clint's relieved when they don't have to share with anyone else.

Pietro wanted the blue one, which was four carriages down.

But he _also_ didn't want to wait any longer than he had to, so that didn't leave them with much of a choice. Clint climbs in after Pietro, and the door gives a definitive _snick_ as it closes behind them. And then the wheel begins to move. Slowly, at first, while the rest of the line filters onto separate carriages.

It really doesn't take that long, but Pietro bounces his knee up and down like they have been waiting for hours, not minutes.

Clint's hand flies out and lands on the younger man's thigh, just above his knee. Pietro stops bouncing almost instantly, and casts a glance in Clint's direction before he follows the line of Clint's arm, down to where his hand is resting lightly on the fabric of his jeans, lingering just above his knee.

Then he sets his hand atop of Clint's and winds their fingers together. Pietro leans against Clint's shoulder and seems to be content there, a little less jittery and impatient than he was a moment ago.

He untangles his fingers from Clint's, but doesn't pull away; instead, he turns Clint's hand over and starts tracing the lines of his palm.

"Maybe," Pietro begins, fingertips dipping to graze along the inside of Clint's wrist. "I could see where you live."

"What, tonight?"

"Is tonight not good for you?"

"No, no. That's not it. It's just-tonight's been great. It's more than great." Clint stammers. "That's not it, babe. I just don't want it to be like that. Like how all of my other dates ended, 'cause they never went anywhere. And I want this to."

Pietro says nothing, at first. He traces the inside of Clint's wrist, ghosting over the veins and the lines of his calloused palm. Their carriage jolts suddenly-only slightly-as the Ferris Wheel well and truly comes to life.

"That is what you really want?" Pietro says, finally breaking the silence (it wasn't tense or awkward, it just _was_ ).

Clint nods along belatedly. Then clears his throat, before he answers. "For tonight? Yeah, that's what I want. We waited-what, a month? We waited long enough for _this_ , didn't we? I waited that long just for the chance to sit next to you. This is what I want. It's enough for me."

"It is?" he asks.

"You bet." Clint says. "Now, shut up and enjoy the view."

"I am."

"What'd I say earlier? You've got the rest of your life to flirt with me, and I've only got tonight to-"

"To, what? To prove that you don't suck at carnival games?"

"I was gonna say, 'to show you a good time'. But sure, that works just as well." Clint says, and smirks. "I already kind of proved that I don't suck at carnival games. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of practice. It's like you were trying to hit everything else, except the balloons."

Pietro scoffs, then winds his fingers through Clint's, giving them a sharp squeeze. "Well, I didn't hit _you_ with a dart, did I? I could have, but didn't."

"Could have hit me? _Please_. You couldn't even hit a balloon. There's no way you could've got me." Clint says. He glances out over the fairground; from up in the carriage, everything looks so much smaller. And brighter, too, somehow.

It almost feels like it's just the two of them, while the rest of the world fades away to black, and that's a new sensation for Clint. He's always been acutely aware of his place in the world (one tiny speck, nothing too special) but tonight feels different, for lack of a better word. And that's a feeling that only Pietro can evoke in him, apparently.

Which is strange, but still welcome. It's new and scary, and _completely_ welcome. Clint's never felt more-or maybe less-vulnerable, on a date, and it was only their _first_. Clint already knows that he's in way too deep. And, for the first time in a really long time, he doesn't feel like running away from that feeling.

Clint _swears_ that he hears Pietro speak, but, when he looks back in the direction of the younger man, Pietro's gazing out at the dark sky and the stars, quietly fascinated. Clint takes his own advice: _shut up and enjoy_ the view; even if that view happens to be Pietro and his ridiculously long, dark lashes. Pietro, and his sky-blue eyes. And his fingers, intertwined with Clint's own.

It's a pretty damn good view.

* * *

They drive to Pietro's apartment in almost complete silence, aside from the crackle of static coming from the radio, as it drops in and out. Clint switches it off, in irritation. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Pietro staring at him; in a way that's curious and quiet, and a little unnerving.

Clint almost asks, but doesn't.

He keeps both hands on the wheel-well, only one hand can actually grip the steering wheel properly, so the other is kind of just propped up there-and fixes both of his eyes back on the road, even if he wants to look and touch while he still can, he doesn't.

"So you know where it is?" Pietro asks suddenly, breaking the silence. "My apartment. I can draw a map, if you like. Of where it is."

"I've got some idea."

"Oh?"

"Yep. A very vague idea. I've never really visited this side of town before." Clint says. He hits the brakes, gently, as they reach a red light. The roads are quiet (practically deserted, apart from a couple of cars just behind Clint at the lights) but, then again, this _is_ a pretty quiet town.

It's 12AM and there's barely anyone around, which might've been considered strange, in the city. But here, it's just how it is, most nights.

Clint's used to it.

"Why have you never been here before?"

"This town ain't big enough for the two of us." Clint tries his best fake Western accent, which apparently isn't very good at all. Pietro looks _this_ close to bursting into a fit of laughter. He arches an eyebrow at Clint. "I didn't say that, did I? I _have_ been here before, just not much. You like it here?"

Pietro's answer is cut off by the sound of a car honking, and loudly. It's only then that Clint realizes that the light isn't red, and has turned green. Clint hits the pedal and speeds out of the intersection. He's always been a decent driver, despite Natasha's claims that he's too slow, and drives like Steve.

And every single time she says that, Clint asks: "have you ever actually seen Rogers drive? Because he's not slow. He's worse than Stark".

"I like it here." Pietro says, picking up where they left off.

"It's not too quiet for you?"

"No."

"I thought it might be." Clint confesses, and shoots a brief glance in Pietro's direction.

"Why? Is it too quiet for you?" he asks, fidgeting with the sleeves of his denim jacket, and Clint can't help but think he looks a little out of place in the truck. Yet, at the same time, he looks like he's _meant_ to be here. At least, it feels that way when Clint glances over at him.

"Sometimes, yeah. It's a little too quiet. But I grew up on a farm, so I'm used to it, I guess. The quiet. It does get a little lonely."

"Does it?"

"Yeah, I-" Clint cuts himself off. "Yeah, it does."

"You can say it." Pietro says, voice warm and encouraging. And even though Clint's eyes are fixed on the road ahead, he can still picture the smile on Pietro's face. "Whatever it was, you can say it."

"Can I?" Clint asks, somewhat distractedly. He flicks on the indicator and makes a sharp right turn. "I don't really know _what_ I was gonna say in the first place. You'll be the first to know, if I remember." a moment passes, and when Pietro says nothing, Clint squints out at the road. "Hey, am I even going the right way? I don't recognize most of this."

"We're almost there."

"You're sure?"

"I think I know where I live, old man."

Clint huffs out a laugh and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. "Alright, alright. So, what's it like? Your place?"

"It's nice."

"Nice?" Clint asks, eyebrows raised. "That's all you're giving me? Gotta give me a little more than _that_."

"Well, you could always come inside." Pietro says. "See for yourself. That would be better than hearing me talk about it, no?"

"I'd like that." Clint says. "Just not tonight."

And when Pietro says nothing, just shifts in his seat to stare out the window, Clint wonders if he's said something wrong. He considers switching the radio back on, to fill the silence (it's tense, for reasons that he can't really fathom). A part of him doesn't want to say goodbye, not yet. Not after such a blissful first date. Too soon, a small apartment block comes into view and Pietro gestures to it, telling Clint to pull over.

It's too dark to really make out any discernible features: tall, made of brick, _old_.

Clint parks directly across from the building and shuts the engine off. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, a beat later, and stuffs them into his jacket pocket. He turns to look at Pietro and finds that the younger man hasn't so much as budged from his seat. He's unbuckled his belt, but that's it.

He seems just as relucant to leave as Clint feels.

"Let me walk you home." Clint says, even though 'home' for Pietro is literally _right_ across the road. A thirty second walk, from where Clint's parked. Still, he offers. Still, Pietro smiles, nods, then opens his door and climbs out of the truck.

And how he manages to do that with his arms full of prizes, Clint doesn't know, but he admires the skill nonetheless. It doesn't slip Clint's attention, that Pietro pointedly leaves two of the prizes on the passenger seat: the one-eyed alien from Toy Story, and Garfield.

The outside of Clint's shoulder brushes against Pietro's, as they cross over from asphalt to pavement, and then they're standing outside of Pietro's apartment block. The sidewalk is dimly lit and, apart from them, empty.

 _Too soon_ , Clint thinks, _It's over too soon._

He wants to wind the clock back, to the start of the night. It isn't possible, but he still wants it. Wants to catch Pietro's eye across a busy crowd, and wrap his arms around Pietro's waist, tight. Wants to stay, not leave (leave, and go back to an empty house, an empty bed).

Pietro's hair falls forward suddenly, blown by the wind, and spills across his forehead like a fringe. Clint wants to brush it back.

So he does.

Clint lifts a hand to Pietro's face and brushes the hair out of his eyes, lingering a moment. This close, he can make out a faint scar underneath Pietro's left eye, an inch or so above his cheekbone, that he hadn't noticed before. Clint's fingers skirt across Pietro's skin, along his jaw, before he drops his hand away entirely.

"What was that for?" Pietro asks, voice strained. He clears his throat and asks again, echoing Clint's exact words from earlier that night. "What was that for? Is that your way of saying goodnight?"

"That's me remembering this. You."

Pietro rolls his eyes. Then, smacks Clint in the arm. "You're not _that_ old. I think you could make it up those stairs, if you really tried."

"That's not-hey, I didn't even mention my age." Clint says, a smile playing on his lips. He grabs a fistful of Pietro's jacket and tugs him closer. "That was me remembering what your pretty, cocky little face looks like. Before I walk away."

"I don't see much walking."

"Oh, is that how it is? Just can't way to see the back of me, can you." Clint murmurs, and Pietro makes a rather curious noise.

"Well, _yes_ , I want to se-"

"That sentence stops _right_ there."

Pietro pouts. Like a full blown, stuck out lower lip pout, and when that doesn't work, he pointedly drags his eyes down to Clint's lips, then back up again. Clint's grip on the front of Pietro's denim jacket tightens, and he gives it another sharp tug closer, closer, _closer_ , until Pietro's right up in his space and Clint can't think of anything else other than how _badly_ he wants to kiss Pietro.

So he does.

* * *

 **A/N:** This is the last chapter of our boys at the carnival. Hope you all enjoyed it! ❀


	23. Chapter 23

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Wanda**

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

Clint makes the first move. He leans in slowly, giving Pietro plenty of time to pull away, change his mind, but he doesn't. Instead, he drops all of his prizes onto the sidewalk, lifts a hand to frame the side of Clint's face, then kisses him.

It somehow feels like too much and not enough at the same time, and Clint's slowly going mad, he's sure of it.

Pietro's lips are soft and sweet, almost syrupy. The kiss is a little hurried, at first. Frenzied, and almost clumsy, and Clint sinks into it. He loses himself in the feeling of Pietro's warm hand sliding up his chest, the fingertips ghosting across his jaw, the lips pressing urgently against his own. Pietro shifts and angles his head just _so,_ and-

They break apart, suddenly. Clint pulls back a fraction, and it turns out he's not the only one breathing heavily; Pietro's breath comes in soft pants. He drags the pad of his thumb along Clint's jaw (barely there, just another ghost of a touch) and Clint's eyes flutter shut at the amount of tenderness in that single touch alone.

It makes his chest ache.

"Still want to walk away?" Pietro asks, and Clint knows that Pietro's trying to sound smart and cocky, and _oh so sure of himself_ , but he sounds breathy, and just as wrecked as Clint feels. "You don't _have_ to go. We could go upstairs."

"We could." Clint says hesitantly.

"But we won't."

Clint groans quietly, then nods, eyes still closed.

He wants to stay, wants to soak up as much time with Pietro as possible, but it wouldn't feel right. Not for a first date and not like _this_. As much as it pains him to do so, Clint uncurls his hand from Pietro's jacket. He opens his eyes, a moment later. Pietro's hand lingers on Clint's jaw, grazing over his bottom lip, before he pulls his hand back.

There's a slight furrow in Pietro's brow, that Clint wants to chase away (wants to _kiss_ away). He doesn't. Clint kicks at the pavement idly, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the concrete.

"You know I'm gonna call you, right?" Clint asks, watches as Pietro seems to instantly brighten, then smiles. "First thing in the morning. As soon as I wake up, I'm calling you. Or I'll text you. This isn't goodbye, so will you quit looking at me like you're a three-legged puppy that I'm abandoning? Or a kid I just dropped off on a doorstep. It's _killing_ me."

"Not goodbye." Pietro says, tongue darting out to wet his pink, only slightly kiss-swollen, lips. "Just goodnight."

"Exactly. I'll be around so much you'll get sick of me."

"Will I?"

"Yeah. Completely sick of me."

Pietro's smile is slow to form, at first. He ducks his head and kisses Clint on the cheek, before taking a solid step backwards. It's only then that he seems to remember the scattered prizes on the sidewalk, but he's quick to gather them up, and even quicker to rise to his feet and catch Clint's eye once again.

"I'll call you." Clint says, for lack of anything better to say. His tongue feels heavy, his throat constricted, like there's _too_ much he wants to say and he just can't form the proper words. It'd feel too inadequate. It _still_ feels inadequate. "Text me once you're inside and safe." he adds, and Pietro nods, fixing Clint with one last smile before he backs away.

The bracelet around Clint's wrist feels heavier than ever, as he walks away. He throws a glance back over his shoulder at Pietro, as he crosses the road. Once he reaches his truck, Clint opens the driver's side door, strips off his jacket and tosses it onto the backseat, then looks back in the direction of the apartment building.

Pietro's gone.

It makes his chest ache in an entirely different way.

Clint climbs up into the truck, closes the door behind him, and waits. He drops his phone into his lap, then puts the keys in the ignition, but doesn't start the engine up just yet. There's at least half a dozen notifications on the lockscreen of Clint's phone that he just swipes away, but not Wanda's (he wouldn't even _dare_ , because she'd somehow find out. And then she'd find Clint, and sure, Wanda's a sweetheart most of the time, but she's also kind of scary and Clint's not game enough to piss her off).

 **[10:16PM]:**

 **It was blue. Why?**

And just like that, it makes sense. Pietro's fondness of the color blue. Clint's in the middle of replying to Wanda, when a text from Pietro rolls through at the top of his screen and he clicks it immediately. A second message comes through, then a third. Clint's not even surprised by the fourth message, already anticipating a fifth, and possibly even a sixth.

 _[12:38AM]:_

 _hi babe  
_

 _[12:38AM]:_

 _thank u for waiting.x_

 _[12:39AM]:_

 _im safe & sound inside my apartment_

 _[12:42AM]:_

 _i can see u from my window_

[12:43AM]:

Yeah? Which floor are you on?

 _[12:44AM]:_

 _why? are u going to scale the building_

 _[12:46AM]:_

 _:) im on the 2nd floor. see u soon?_

There's a small moment of hesitation, on Clint's part. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, and casts a conflicted glance between Pietro's window and the iPhone in his lap. It doesn't buzz-yet, Pietro's probably typing up his next message-which gives Clint a chance to, well, _think_.

He sends his reply off quickly, so he can't change his mind again.

[12:50AM]:

Not tonight, sweetheart.

[12:51AM]:

But you'll see me again soon. Promise. Xx

 _[12:57AM]:_

 _text me when u get home so i know ur safe xo_

Pietro's apartment block grows smaller and smaller, until it's nothing more but a dot in Clint's rearview mirror. He keeps driving. Keeps both eyes on the road, and pointedly doesn't glance over to the passenger's seat like he expects Pietro to still be sitting in it.

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[1:33AM]:

Hey, I'm here. Just got in the door.

[1:34AM]:

Get some sleep. Xx

[1:37AM]:

That's if you're not already asleep. Which I think you are, because usually you reply to my messages within seconds of me sending them. Anyway, I just wanted to say I had a good time. Don't think that I didn't just because I didn't want to come upstairs for some "coffee".

[1:40AM]:

There's plenty of time for coffee.

[1:42AM]:

Anyway, goodnight. From me and Lucky.

[1:45AM]:

Or just me, since Lucky can't actually talk. Anyway. I don't know why I'm still messaging you. Night. Xx

 _[1:56AM]:_

 _i am awake. sorry i was in the shower  
_

 _[1:57AM]:_

 _gnite clint. i will be thinking of you, my man in red xx  
_

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[9:02AM]:

Morning. Hope you slept as well as I did. Xx

 _[9:03AM]:_

 _finally_

 _[9:04AM]:_

 _i have been waiting for you to wake up_

[9:05AM]:

Oh? That's unlike you.

 _[9:07AM]:_

 _what is?_

[9:09AM]:

To wait. For anything, ever. You're not exactly patient.

[9:09AM]:

No offence.

[9:12AM]:

I expected to wake up to like a thousand texts.

 _[9:14AM]:_

 _well that is unlike you to say "no offence"_

[9:18AM]:

It is? Maybe you're right.

[9:20AM]:

Weird. I used to be way less concerned about hurting your feelings. I wonder what happened.

 _[9:23AM]:_

 _that was before you became infatuated with me_

[9:25AM]:

Wow. I'm impressed. That's a pretty big word for you, kid. Especially this early. ;)

 _[9:28AM]:_

 _there he is :-) good morning my old man_

[9:30AM]:

Morning, brat :-)

[9:31AM]:

Were you waiting for something in particular, or just me?

 _[9:33AM]:_

 _just you_

[9:36AM]:

Well, here I am. Look no further.

[9:37AM]:

How'd you sleep?

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _very well_

 _[9:40AM]:_

 _what are you doing today?_

[9:43AM]:

Hmm. Not sure yet. Sunday's are usually all about doing nothing at all, so there might be some of that.

[9:44AM]:

I also want to work on the dining room. Maybe knock a couple of walls down. Do some renovating. It's been so long. I think I've been bitten by the renovation bug. Nat will be happy. She's been wanting me to go over to Sam's for months now. Fix up the job he did on the kitchen.

 _[9:45AM]:_

 _? seriously_

 _[9:49AM]:_

 _are you forgetting what happened the last time you tried to build something_

[9:50AM]:

That's totally different.

[9:53AM]:

And I wasn't trying to build something. I was trying to repair it. Remember? It was that brat's fault. He knocked the ladder out from underneath me, so if you're gonna be mad then be mad at him. He's only a kid, sure, but I didn't knock myself off the ladder. Did I?

 _[9:54AM]:_

 _did you?_

[9:56AM]:

Yeah, I'm just that stupid.

 _[9:57AM]:_

 _how are your fingers? still broken?_

[9:58AM]:

Actually, they're much better. Doc says I can take the tape off in a week or so. I'll be good. Promise.

 _[9:59AM]:_

 _dont be good. just be careful  
_

[10:03AM]:

You're forgetting that this is actually my job.

 _[10:04AM]:_

 _to break things?_

[10:05AM]:

Yeah, if I need to. To build. Repair. Stuff like that.

 _[10:08AM]:_

 _no more broken bones_

[10:10AM]:

Deal. I promise I won't break any important bones.

 _[10:13AM]:_

 _what will you do to your dining room?  
_

[10:15AM]:

Dunno. I just woke up feeling like I needed to do something today. Maybe put a fresh coat of paint on the house. Touch it up a bit.

[10:17AM]:

What will you do?

 _[10:19AM]:_

 _today is my day off_

[10:21AM]:

Didn't you have yesterday off?

 _[10:23AM]:_

 _didnt you?_

[10:25AM]:

Yeah, I did. Went on a date.

 _[10:27AM]:_

 _oh? how was it?_

[10:28AM]:

As far as first dates, that was my favorite one. It was good.

 _[10:30AM]:_

 _just good?_

[10:32AM]:

More than good. It was everything I wanted it to be.

[10:34AM]:

Anyway. So you don't work today?

 _[10:35AM]:_

 _not until tuesday_

[10:36AM]:

.. **..**

[10:38AM]:

There's something I wanna ask you.

 _[10:39AM]:_

 _oh?_

[10:40AM]:

Yeah. I'm just not sure if I should.

[10:43AM]:

But first, coffee. BRB.

 _[10:46AM]:_

 _rude_

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

 _[10:58AM]:_

 _it does not take that long to make coffee_

 _[11:06AM]:_

 _where did you go?_

 _[11:09AM]:_

 _you can ask me anything_

 _[11:11AM]:_

 _?_

 _[11:15AM]:_

 _i will do more of this ?/ since i know you hate it_

 _[11:17AM]:_

 _this is not acceptable boyfriend behavior_

[11:20AM]:

.. **..**

[11:23AM]:

Sorry, I had to take a call.

 _[11:24AM]:_

 _so what was the question?_

[11:35AM]:

Ok. I'm having this thing for my birthday. I didn't even want to have something, but Nat insists. It's hard to say no to her. You'll see that when you meet her. That's if you wanna meet her. We're doing something for my birthday this week. Don't know when, or even where, but I figured I'd just let you know and see whether that's something you'd be interested in.

[11:36AM]:

Wanda can tag along, if you feel uncomfortable coming alone. And if she promises not to kill me.

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _why would i be uncomfortable_

[11:40AM]:

I just meant so you'd know someone. Apart from me.

 _[11:43AM]:_

 _wanda will most likely be working. i dont mind going alone clint. are you worried that i will be uncomfortable?_

[11:45AM]:

Yeah, I guess. A little worried.

[11:46AM]:

There's no pressure on you to come. I'd be disappointed if you couldn't make it, but I'd live. I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable, not knowing anyone else there. And being near people you haven't met before. They're all good people. Well, Tony's an asshole, but just avoid him and you'll feel right at home.

[11:48AM]:

That's if you wanna feel right at home. I'll be there, at least.

 _[11:49AM]:_

 _i dont need to know anyone else there. i know you :-)_

 _[11:51AM]:_

 _and yes ill be there_

 _[11:53AM]:_

 _i wouldnt miss it clint  
_

[12:05PM]:

Cool. I'll text you the details once I know them. And I can give you a ride, if you need it.

 _[12:07PM]:_

 _when is your actual birthday?_

 _[12:08PM]:_

 _and why didnt you tell me it was your birthday so soon? as your boyfriend i think i should know these things_

[12:10PM]:

It's next week. The 18th.

[12:12PM]:

Guess it just slipped my mind. I don't know why I didn't mention it.

[12:15PM]:

When's your birthday? Yours and Wanda's. Did I miss it?

 _[12:16PM]:_

 _you didnt miss anything it is october 5  
_

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _i will turn 26 this year_

[12:19PM]:

That's not so bad. Will you do anything special for it?

 _[12:20PM]:_

 _perhaps_

 _[12:23PM]:_

 _why didnt you tell me it was your birthday before now? and i would like the honest answer. the innocent act is cute tho  
_

[12:25PM]:

What? I was honest. It slipped my mind.

[12:27PM]:

.. **..**

[12:29PM]:

Ok, so maybe it didn't slip my mind. Maybe I just didn't want to mention it because it's weird.

 _[12:31PM]:_

 _what? having a_ _birthday_ _is weird_

[12:33PM]:

No. Me turning 35.

 _[12:34PM]:_

 _like you said, this is not so bad. it happens_

[12:37PM]:

Yeah. Except I'll officially be 10 years older than you.

 _[12:40PM]:_

 _so? so what?_

[12:42PM]:

So that's kind of weird. Isn't it weird?

 _[12:45PM]:_

 _enough  
_

 _[12:46PM]:_

 _i thought i made it clear already that it does not matter if you are older than me  
_

 _[12:49PM]:_

 _im fine with it and you should be too  
_

[12:50PM]:

Yeah, I know you are. But I still feel weird about it.

 _[12:52PM]:_

 _then why are you with me if its so weird for you? if i can look beyond it then so can you. we had fun last night, yes? that is what matters here. unless you are worried about what people will think? is that it?  
_

[12:55PM]:

Maybe I am worried. Is that so bad?

[12:56PM]:

And you seriously didn't just ask me why I'm with you, did you? You know why. There's so many reasons why.

 _[12:58PM]:_

 _what are you worried about?_

[1:00PM]:

That one day you'll wake up and regret getting involved with me. Maybe not one day soon, but eventually.

 _[1:02PM]:_

 _not going to happen_

 _[1:04PM]:_

 _one day i am going to wake up next to you. thats it. i wont wake up with regret. now enough of this talk. i need your advice.  
_

 _[1:05PM]:_

 _should i have waffles or pancakes for lunch?_

[1:08PM]:

You can cook?

 _[1:09PM]:_

 _i am a natural  
_

[1:13PM]:

I didn't see that coming.

[1:13PM]:

I vote for pancakes.

 _[1:15PM]:_

 _want some? i make them from scratch  
_

[1:18PM]:

Yum. I'll be right over.

[1:20PM]:

I've decided to just paint today. No walls will be knocked down until my hand is fully healed. Happy?

 _[1:24PM]:_

 _obviously_

 _[1:26PM]:_

 _you know you still did not answer my question. about why you are with me if it worries you?_

[1:28PM]:

I don't know how to answer that question. It's stupid. There are too many reasons why. Like you make me laugh, even when you're a dick. You're funny. Smart. Kind of an asshole, too, but you're sweet. You also walk dogs for a living and I love dogs, so. That's why.

[1:29PM]:

You make me happy and I'm trying really hard not to give a shit about what other people think. So maybe cut me some slack? I don't mean to hurt your feelings when I say shit like that. I'm trying that whole honestly approach that we talked about way back. This is me being honest.

 _[1:32PM]:_

 _it isnt a stupid question_

[1:34PM]:

Yes, it is. Because there's no single answer, and everything I say feels like it's not enough.

 _[1:36PM]:_

 _well it is enough_

 _[1:36PM]:_

 _and so are you_

[1:39PM]:

Think so? I'm not so sure. But I'm trying.

[1:43PM]:

Listen, I didn't tell you about the birthday thing because I didn't want you to feel pressured. Like I backed you into a corner.

 _[1:45PM]:_

 _and that would be a bad thing? i think not_

[1:47PM]:

Come on. I'm being serious.

[1:50PM]:

We've only been on one date and I'm already asking you to meet my friends. Doesn't that seem a little too eager? And maybe too sudden. And I'm worried they'll screw it up for us. If not them, then I'll probably have a shot at it. I'm good at that. Breaking things.

[1:51PM]:

Don't let me screw this up.

 _[1:54PM]:_

 _you think too much old man_

 _[1:57PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[1:59PM]:_

 _i will be there to celebrate and they will love me. and if they dont at least you will :-)_

[2:04PM]:

You're right. They'll love you.

 _[2:06PM]:_

 _and you?_

[2:09PM]:

I think I could.

 _[2:13PM]:_

 _:-)_

 _[2:15PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[2:17PM]:_

 _im out of eggs. have fun with your paint cans old man. im going to the store x_

[2:18PM]:

Hurry back. Xx

 _[2:18PM]:_

 _zoooooooooom  
_

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[2:47PM]:

Decided to paint indoors. Fix up the dining room. We both remember what happened the last time I tried to do stuff outdoors, so I thought I'd just stay inside today. This way, there's less risk of me falling off another roof before my birthday. I could still fall off the ladder though.

[2:49PM]:

Forget I said that last bit. You'll just get mad.

[2:59PM]:

Painting is going about as well as expected. So not well at all. I've gotten more on myself than I have on the wall.

[3:04PM]:

And on Lucky, too. He has spots now.

[3:06PM]:

I'll send you a pic.

[3:12PM]:

Hope you're having better luck at the store than I am at home. It's a mess, but it'll be worth it. At least, that's what I'm telling myself since you're not here to give me a pep talk. Who knew that I'd actually need your annoying optimism one day? Maybe it's not that annoying.

[3:18PM]:

Almost dropped my phone in a paint tin. Talk later. Xx

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[4:39PM]:

Guess what color I'm painting the dining room?

[4:40PM]:

It says "sistine blue" on the tin. I kinda like it.

[4:43PM]:

You'll have to let me know what you think. I sent you some pictures on Snapchat. Which means I'm trusting you not to screenshot any of the ones with my face in it. I'll know if you do and then I'll have to think of some way to get back at you for it.

[4:45PM]:

Also I'm just checking in. I haven't heard from you since you left for the store and that was a couple hours ago. So this is me just making sure everything's ok. Your phone probably died or something. Whatever.

[4:46PM]:

Just let me know you're ok.

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[5:21PM]:

Or maybe your phone didn't die and you're just pissed off. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. You always make it look so easy. Whenever you talk, it's like you've got it all figured out. Me. This relationship. You're good at it. But me? I make it up as I go along.

[5:23PM]:

.. **..**

[5:26PM]:

Was it because I didn't say the L word?

[5:29PM]:

I'm just not there yet.

[5:35PM]:

That doesn't mean I won't be. One day. I just think it's too soon for stuff like that.

[5:37PM]:

But if there was ever someone that I think I could feel that way about, it'd be you. I know it would be. And I know that's not the same as saying the real thing, but it's the best I've got right now. It's either good enough for you or it isn't.

[5:40PM]:

I really hope it is.

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

[5:47PM]:

Hey, Nat. Did we decide on a venue yet?

[5:48PM]:

And by we I mean you, since I still really don't want any part of this. Remember: I forbid anything Gatsby-esque. That's my only rule.

[5:52PM]:

Running Man will be there.

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

The ladder rattles once, _twice_ , underneath Clint's weight. He climbs down one rung at a time, carefully, and then lands on his feet on the plastic-covered floor with a soft thud. He's covered in splotches of blue and white paint-sistine blue for the walls, and white for the trimmings-and the room isn't even finished yet.

Still, it's something. A small accomplishment, perhaps, but it's more than he's done around the house in weeks.

It feels like a tiny victory.

Clint sets the paint roller aside and reaches for one of the smaller brushes to touch up some of the more noticeable mistakes. He's probably too critical for his own good, but it has to be _perfect_. And from where he's standing, the job is nowhere close to being finished.

He's halfway back up the ladder with the wooden end of the paintbrush between his teeth when his phone vibrates, _loudly_. It's on the stand next to the radio that Clint's blasting on high voulme (he's not familiar with this song, something about a yellow brick road) and Clint ignores it, at first, and climbs higher up the ladder.

That is until he hears that familiar marimba ringtone, and cranes his head back to squint down at the caller ID:

 **PIETRO**

Clint hops off the ladder, skipping three rungs in his haste to climb down. There's a sharp burst of pain in his ankle that Clint easily ignores. He swipes his phone up off the stand, accepts the call, and lifts the phone to his ear in one swift motion. Balancing the iPhone between his ear and shoulder, Clint turns back to the wall, brush still gripped tightly in his hand.

"There he is." Clint says, and huffs out a sigh. "Really had me worried, you know that? Of course you know. That was quite the disappearing act you pulled there," he continues, and starts painting around the lightswitch, acutely aware of the silence on Pietro's end.

It's _too_ quiet. Almost like he's not even there at all, or if he is, there's something seriously wrong. It _feels_ wrong. Clint backs away from the wall, focused on the phone wedged between ear and shoulder; there's some sort of movement on the other end of the line, a low rustle, then nothing.

The call disconnects.

The paintbrush falls to the floor, discarded, as Clint dials Pietro's number. It goes straight to voicemail. He tries Wanda next. Twice, before she finally accepts on the third try. Clint's pacing, back and forth, back and forth, by the time her voice finally fills his ears.

 _"I meant to call you,"_ Wanda says, by way of greeting. It isn't sharp, or brisk. There's something strained about it, though, that doesn't sit well with Clint. _"He-"_

"What's going on?" Clint interrupts, agitated, too unsettled to stay still, or quiet. "He's rejecting my calls. He won't answer any of my messages. Is he with you? Tell me he's with you." he says, and it all comes out at once, too fast. " _Please_."

Wanda hesitates. _"Yes,"_ she says. _"He's here."_

"Can I talk to him?" he asks, but it's more of a plea. "Put him on the phone. Just-I just want to talk to him for a minute. I need to talk to him."

 _"No, you can't. Not like this. Do you remember where we live? You should, it was only early this morning that you dropped my brother home, yes?"_ Wanda's voice is lower, like she's trying to be quiet on purpose, and Clint can't help but worry about _why_ that is.

"Yeah, I remember. I dropped him home. Why?"

 _"Because my brother is too stubborn to listen to me."_ Wanda says, biting out the words. Clint can't figure out who she's pissed off at: Pietro, Clint, or herself. _"He refuses to. So I thought he might listen to you, but he will not call you."_

"I-but he did call me." Clint frowns, and crosses over from the dining room and into the dimly lit kitchen. The floor is cold beneath his feet, and Lucky is watching him from his bed by the door, one paw draped over his eyes dramatically, and Clint has never felt this kind of all-consuming panic beneath. "Didn't he?"

 _"That was someone else."_

Clint stops moving. And, for a second, it feels like he stops breathing, too. "Why would someone else have his phone?"

 _"They took his phone and his wallet."_ she says, a beat later. There's an edge to her voice, something that Clint instantly recognizes; an anger at not being able to protect a sibling. It sends a cold jolt of fear straight down Clint's spine. _"They hurt him, then took his things."  
_

"How bad is it?" Clint asks calmly, though it's not going to last. He's never been particularly prone to outbursts of rage, but _this_ , the idea that Pietro was beat up by a bunch of cowards, it does things to Clint. Makes him see red. Makes his hands shake, and his chest _hurt._

Wanda's sigh echoes down the line. _"He won't go to the hospital. Won't even let me look at him._ _He thinks I am fussing over something small, but if you were here, I-"_ she stops, suddenly. Too choked up to continue.

"Hey, hey, I'll be right over. It'll be ok." Clint soothes.

It's a promise that he can't keep, but he makes it all the same. And if Wanda notices the slight tremor to Clint's voice, she doesn't comment on it. Clint ends the call. He swipes his keys up off the kitchen counter and heads in the direction of his truck, stopping only to pull his boots on in the hallway. Clint grabs a coat off the rack on his way out, then locks the house up behind him.

His hands are shaking so badly that it takes him twice as long to start up the truck. Clint jams the keys in the ignition, hard, and tries to pull himself together as best as he can by focusing on the weight of Pietro's bracelet around his wrist. It does the trick for now, at least.

Clint manages to keep his hands steady as he drives down the path away from his farmhouse and pulls out onto the main road.

* * *

 **A/N:** the song playing on Clint's radio was Trouble by Avicii. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! c:


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Just quickly: since Sokovia doesn't exist, I had to improvise. And that means I used Google Translator. Wanda and Pietro speak Croatian, and I hope that doesn't bug anyone too much. (translations are at the end of the chapter)

I did some research for the medical bits of this chapter. Still, I wouldn't take any of this as serious advice if you're ever injured. I'm basically just winging my way throughout this entire fic. \o/

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

Pietro's holding a bag of frozen peas to his face when Clint arrives. He's greeted at the door by Wanda, who somehow manages to hold herself together. There's a feather-light touch on Clint's shoulder, where Wanda's hand lingers and squeezes gently, a reassurance.

This is _her_ brother, her blood. He was her Pietro long before he was Clint's anything, yet she still offers Clint comfort, rather than seeking any out for herself.

It quietly stuns Clint.

He notices the smudges of mascara underneath her eyes, like she's been crying, maybe, and _shit_. Clint hopes it isn't that bad. He hopes and _hopes_ , even though hoping hasn't done Clint much good in the past.

The apartment is somehow everything Clint expected. He's too jittery and preoccupied to truly appreciate it, but there are things that he notices anyway as he follows Wanda inside, like: candles. There's a _lot_ of candles. All different shapes and sizes. And the curtains are shimmery, like the ones in Pietro's bedroom.

It's not cluttered, not in a messy way, just- _full_. Busy. There's a lot of life. Picture frames, and rolls of fabric propped up against the far wall, and a small table that Clint guesses is Wanda's workspace.

There's a lot that goes unnoticed. Clint's hands start to shake a little, the panic rising in his chest as they step into the kitchen. It's bright, with black and white linoleum tiles, and then there's Pietro.

And Clint's never felt his heart sink so fast.

He wants to sink with it. Wants to sink to his knees on the floor in front of Pietro, but he doesn't. Somehow-and he isn't sure how he manages it, with trembling hands and a racing heart-Clint manages to stay upright. He moves stiffly towards Pietro, like maybe he's not sure if he should.

The look that Pietro gives him is nothing short of heart wrenching. He nearly looks embarrassed, and he _shouldn't_. Clint wants to pull him close and just hold him. Make that look disappear, for good, but it doesn't feel like the right time.

"I-how? How did it happen?" Clint drops his keys onto the small table, and then wishes he hadn't. Pietro flinches away from the sound, like it's too much, too _loud_.

Wanda comes into Clint's vision, hovering behind Pietro's chair, just over his shoulder. "He was walking home through the park, when they-when it happened." she says, then her jaw sets into a hard, grim line.

"It could have been worse." Pietro says.

But it's lacking something. There's something frightened and small in his voice, even if he's trying to prove otherwise. When he pulls the bag of frozen peas away from his face, Clint finally gets a good look at the damage.

It's bad.

Pietro's bottom lip is split and there's dried blood caked around the wound. There are obvious bruises already purpling across his skin, but the worst of it-that Clint can see, anyway-is his left eye. It's not just bruised, but badly swollen.

Faintly, Clint registers the sound of Wanda's voice. He tunes back into the conversation, even if he can't drag his eyes away from Pietro's banged up face. "-and _that_ is what you say? I don't see how it could be worse."

"Jesus. Look what they did to you." Clint says, and steps closer. He crouches down in front of Pietro's chair, so that he's not towering over him, and he doesn't feel cornered into having this conversation. "Tell me what you need. Whatever you need, just tell me and I'll do it."

"What he _needs_ is to go to the hospital." Wanda says, voice wavering, like she's dangerously close to breaking.

She edges closer towards Pietro and tilts his head to the side gently, inspecting his injuries. Pietro pulls a face and brushes her hand away, visibly annoyed. Then, he mutters something underneath his breath in a language that Clint doesn't understand (or recognize, for that matter) before he knocks Wanda's hand away a second time.

There's a blood stain on the collar of Pietro's shirt that Clint can't stop staring at. His crisp white V-neck is stained with dots of dark blood, and Clint's seeing red again, in more ways than one. He lifts his eyes up, skimming over the column of Pietro's bare throat (unmarked. At least, from where Clint's crouched) and up to his eyes.

"Ne razumijem." Wanda says, and swipes the bag of (now) defrosted peas out of Pietro's hand. She holds them to his eye, like he's incapable of doing it himself. Or maybe, she just wants to feel useful, like she's doing something to help.

And Clint, well, he can understand that. One of his hands comes to rest lightly on Pietro's knee, brushing against the fabric of his jeans before it settles there. Pietro doesn't seem startled by the touch, at least, and that's something.

Pietro rolls his eye at Wanda (the other one is covered, but Clint assumes he's doing it with both, not just the one). Whatever she's still whispering to him in their mother-tongue is apparently annoying him. He hasn't lost the ability to roll his eyes, even with Wanda fussing over him and holding the bag of peas to the left side of his face. He catches Clint's staring, and Clint feels warm with guilt.

Embarrassment, maybe. Like he _knows_ it's rude to stare, but he's in a state of disbelief. It doesn't feel real. Yesterday, Pietro was smiling at Clint from across a busy crowd, he was whispering words into Clint's ear, and slipping his hand into Clint's own and pressing his mouth against Clint's and they fit together so _perfectly_ , and now-

And now it's different.

Disjointed, even. Clint doesn't dare move his hand from Pietro's knee, and he won't, not unless the younger man asks him to. He isn't sure what he would do, if Pietro wanted him gone. Clint's not sure that he could leave.

" _Stop_." Pietro says. "Stop fussing, moja sestra."

"Fussing? This is what they do to you, and I should stop my _fussing_? You were hurt, moja ljubav. You are." Wanda argues, then looks to Clint, wide-eyed and desperate. Like she's searching for a solution in Clint. Like, somehow, he can work wonders and make Pietro do something he doesn't want to do.

Yeah, like that's ever happened before.

Clint gives her a curt nod, then notices that Pietro's still watching him. "Maybe you should listen to her. Your sister just wants what's best for you."

"What about what I want? I think I know what is best for me, no?" Pietro's voice is low, at first. But rises gradually, and he sounds strung out, _irritated_ , maybe. "I have spent the entire afternoon talking with the police. Giving a statement. _That_ was what Wanda wanted. And now? Now I want to stay here. Home."

"Zašto ste tako tvrdoglavi, Pietro?"

"Neću ići." Pietro answers sharply.

"Ali što-"

"Hey, wait-just, wait. You gave a statement, but they didn't bring anybody in to see you?" Clint asks, frowning slightly. "You went to the local precinct, right? Who'd you speak to? I mean, if I was still on the job and you came in looking like _that_ , I'd make sure you got to the ER as soon as possible."

Wanda sighs heavily, glancing from Pietro to Clint. "He said he would go, so I told them that I would take him. And then my brother changes his mind. Says that he wants to stay home. What am I supposed to do with him when he refuses to leave?"

Pietro grabs the bag of frozen peas out of Wanda's hand, irritated. He drops his eyes away from Clint and stares at his hands instead. His knuckles are bloodied, Clint notices, and it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. Pietro tried to fight back. There are superficial scrapes and cuts all over his hands.

"Zašto si ga doveo ovdje?" Pietro's moving, suddenly, like he wants to stand up, but Wanda's hand comes down to rest on his shoulder. He slumps back in the chair, still not quite looking at Clint. He's staring at a point over Clint's shoulder, somewhere far off, and distant (out of reach). "Ja ga ne želim ovdje da me vidi ovakvu."

"Ti mu ne želim ovdje?"

Pietro's face scrunches up suddenly, like he's in pain. He wrinkles his nose up even further and shakes his head. "Ne ovako."

And if it didn't already _feel_ like they were talking about Clint, the look that Pietro briefly shoots his way is enough of a confirmation. Clint doesn't move from his spot, even if his knees are starting to ache from crouching for so long.

"Let me look at you." Wanda insists. Her voice is low and gentle, and Clint feels a little bit like he's intruding on a family moment. "And if not me, then let _him_." she gestures at Clint. "At least he will know what he's doing. You were an officer once, weren't you?"

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago. I-we were all trained in first aid. But this isn't _that_." Clint stammers. "First aid isn't going to fix-" he cuts himself off suddenly, and exhales a low, shaky sigh. "I can look. See how bad it is. The eye just needs some ice, there's nothing we can do about it. It has to go down on its own."

"And the rest of it?" she asks.

"If it's bad, then I'll take him to the ER myself."

That seems to appease Wanda, for the moment, but it doesn't last. Pietro looks betrayed, like maybe he expected different of Clint. And as much as Clint wants to wipe that hurt look off his face, he'd rather put Pietro's injuries first.

Wanda's _intense._ Her eyes weigh heavily on Clint, watching him closely. "No. No, I don't like this. I changed my mind. My brother needs to see someone else. A doctor, not a man that knew what he was doing a 'long time ago'. He needs more than that."

Pietro shifts slightly in his chair, leaning forward towards Clint, closing some of the distance between them. "You said for me to tell you what I need. This is it." he says, and his hand slides down slowly until it covers Clint's own. "To stay here. To have _you_ nearby. That is what I need from you. I want to stay home."

Biting down on his lip, Clint glances away. "You should've gone to the hospital, kid. Had someone look at you."

"You can."

"I'm not a doctor."

"But you have some idea of what you are doing, yes? Your brother broke a lot of bones, you told me. When you were children. And I have not broken any bones, but you can look, if it makes you feel better." Pietro says. It's enough to draw Clint's eyes back up towards him. "If you still think I need to go, then I will. What do you say?"

Wanda's response comes quicker than Clint's own. "I say that he is not a doctor. I say that he doesn't know what he is doing. Why do you treat this like it is a joke? You _have_ to let someone look at you. Not just your boyfriend."

"Why not? He likes to look at me." Pietro says. "So he might as well."

"This isn't a joke, Pietro."

"I'll do it." Clint says. He gives Pietro's hand a soft squeeze, before rising to his feet and looking to Wanda. "I'll take a look at him. Clean him up a little. And if I'm still not happy, then I'll drive him to the ER myself, like I said I would. I'm not gonna let anything happen to him."

Wanda wraps her arms around herself, then shakes her head. "It is a little late for that, no? Something did happen to him. And neither of us could do anything, and now he wants to stay here and you will let him, even if he looks like _that_."

And sure, she has a point, but Clint's seen worse. Pietro doesn't appear to be suffering from any sort of concussion, and maybe once he gets the younger man alone, he might open up a little more about what happened. About _how_ it happened, and whether Clint should be more concerned about his injuries.

"Hey, look," he says, stepping closer towards Wanda. One of his hands comes to rest on her forearm lightly, and the cardigan is soft beneath Clint's hand. "I came over here for a reason. You said you needed me and I'm here. I'm not gonna pretend that he's fine if he isn't. I'll take a look and then I'll find you and we'll talk about what's next."

Wanda's smile is watery, and _sad_. "Don't let him talk you out of it. He can be very good at that."

"I won't let it happen. His charms are starting to wear off, anyway." Clint says lightly, fixing Wanda with a smile that's probably a little too forced, but it makes some of that sadness disappear from her eyes. "It's not gonna happen."

* * *

Okay, so it almost happens.

It comes _this_ close to happening, once Clint finally gets Pietro alone in the bathroom. And the thing is, Pietro doesn't even have to say anything. Doesn't have to sweet talk his way out of going to the ER. He just has to _look_ at Clint, and the older man feels his resolve crumble.

Underneath the harsh light of the bathroom, everything looks worse. _Everything_. And Clint nearly insists on driving Pietro to the hospital right that second, because fuck, it didn't look that bad in the kitchen.

Still, he made a promise. He said that he would look and touch, and learn the full extent of Pietro's injuries. But, for a moment, all Clint can do is stare. He's torn between wanting to pull Pietro into his arms, and keeping him at arms length just to make sure that no further harm comes to him.

Clint's not convinced that he wouldn't hurt Pietro.

He wants to hug him, _tight._ And that's not really a good idea, considering the current circumstances. So he doesn't hug him. Not yet, anyway, but if Pietro keeps looking at him with those big puppy dog eyes, Clint's going to break.

The bathroom isn't what Clint would call small, but there's not exactly a lot of room, either. Which means they're crowded right up against each other, and Clint can't seem to drag his eyes away from the scrapes and bruises scattered across Pietro's fair skin. He sets the green plastic box down on the edge of the vanity, then looks to Pietro.

"I just-I don't want to hurt you, but can I touch you?" Clint asks, then wets his too dry lips. _Everything_ feels too dry and raw, choked up and uncomfortable, and Clint's quietly still pissed at himself for making Pietro flinch earlier.

Pietro nods his permission. He doesn't speak for a _really_ long moment, and Clint's still unsure about touching him. The only sound to be heard is the _drip, drip, drip_ of a nearby tap. Clint's hand shakes a little, as he lifts it to cup the right side of Pietro's face (the side with less damage).

"How's this?" he asks, surprised by the sound of his own voce. So _small_ , nearly unrecognizable.

"This is fine. It does not hurt."

"You're sure?"

"Mhmm. This is not the worst of it." Pietro assures. He closes the distance between them to press his forehead against Clint's, swallowing thickly. Clint's hand remains on his jaw, just another ghost of a touch, but for an entirely different reason this time.

Clint closes his eyes, even though he shouldn't.

He _should_ be attending to Pietro. Should be checking him over, and making sure it isn't as bad as it looks (making sure that Pietro isn't hiding an injuries from him, too, because that's such a Pietro thing to do).

It feels like his knees are going to give out at any moment. Clint hears Pietro's breath catch in his throat painfully. And then it hits him that Pietro isn't just breathing heavily, he's crying.

Clint pulls back to look at him, and _that_ wasn't the right move, apparently. Pietro shakes his head like he's ashamed and starts to back away from Clint, face scrunched up, cheeks damp with tears and he's actually breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling like he's distressed, working himself up even more.

"Hey. Hey, c'mere. I won't hurt you." Clint soothes, and maybe that helps, because Pietro stops retreating. "I won't. You tell me if it hurts, and I'll back off. I'll get you something for the pain, too."

"It isn't _that_."

"Then what is it?"

Pietro bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. It breaks Clint's heart, just a little. So he leans in and kisses wherever he can that _isn't_ bruised, which doesn't leave a lot, but Clint works with it. He presses a feather light kiss to Pietro's temple, then in between his dark eyebrows, the tip of his nose, on the corner of his mouth.

"I'll make it better. Whatever it is, you can tell me." he says, the words barely a whisper against Pietro's mouth.

"I miss them. My parents. I miss my _home_." Pietro's voice cracks. "And we don't talk about them. Not as much as we did, and I miss them _so_ much. I feel like I will forget them. I already am."

Clint nods along sympathetically, because he _gets_ it, he does. He lost his parents, too, it wasn't the same, not like when he lost Barney. _That_ hurt the most. It felt like a part of himself died along with his idiot brother. His sweet, idiot, reckless big brother.

And then there's Pietro, who's sweet and reckless, and everything that Clint wants (to have, to keep safe, to love).

"It's always gonna hurt." Clint says suddenly. "And I know that's not what you wanna hear right now, but it'll always be there. Someday, you'll wake up and it'll hurt less. That's all there is to it. Grief's a pain in the ass, but you've got this. I know you do. Just don't be so hard on yourself."

Pietro's eyes slip shut. He nods, once, then sags against Clint a little. Clint's arms slip around his waist gently, but he pulls back when he hears Pietro inhale a sharp _hiss_ of pain. There's no blood on the front of Pietro's shirt, apart from the stains Clint noticed earlier. He steps back and tugs at the hem of Pietro's pale V-neck.

"Let's get this off." Clint suggests. "See how bad it is."

Much to Clint's surprise, Pietro makes a small hum of agreement, then opens his eyes and lifts his arms up slowly, allowing Clint to pull the shirt up and over his head. It sticks to his skin, in places, and it's not as easy to get the V-neck over Pietro's head as Clint thought it would be.

He doesn't want to cause the younger man any further pain, so he takes it nice and slow, until they're finally in the clear and Clint can set the shirt aside, dropping it onto the empty side of the basin (there's a cup with two toothbrushes, red and blue, on the sink but apart from that and from Clint's first aid kit, it's empty).

Clint steps around Pietro slowly, taking in the full extent of the damage.

It's not as bad as Clint expected, sure, but that doesn't mean it's not _bad._ Because it is. God, it is, and Clint sucks in a breath as he takes it all in. Mostly, Pietro's just banged up, so bruises and scrapes, and a lot of nasty looking cuts. It's probably just superficial damage, but Clint still insists on checking him over, again and _again._

There's not much blood, which is good. Well, not good, but better.

The scrapes are shallow enough that they don't need to be stitched, only disinfected. Clint's eyes catch on the scar that begins at Pietro's hip and disappears around his side. He's only seen it once before, on Skype, but that has nothing on seeing it like this.

He touches the very edge of the scar, grazing lightly over Pietro's hip bone. Clint doesn't chase the scar with his finger. Doesn't pay it a second thought, once he drops his hand away.

"Breathe in for me." Clint instructs, both hands coming to rest lightly on Pietro's ribs. He's dealt with all kinds of damaged ribs before: bruised, fractured, _broken_. And he knows what he's looking for (or, feeling for, to be more precise). "How's it feel?"

Pietro sucks in a sharp breath, then exhales slowly. He holds Clint's gaze the entire time. "Cold."

"Wha-you mean my hands?"

"Yes. What else?"

"I don't mean how do my _hands_ feel. When you breathe in and out," Clint's fingers splay open across Pietro's bare chest. "Like that. How does it feel? Are you having any trouble breathing? Nothing feels broken to me, but we'd need an X-ray to be sure. Any pain at all? Even a little."

"Not really. I- _ah_ , your hands are freezing. Get them off me."

"C'mon. I'm being serious." Clint says. "Does it feel any different?"

"A little sore, but only where the bruises are." he says, and takes one of Clint's hands by the wrist and directs it away from his ribs, down to rest on his waist just above where a particularly large bruise is purpling. "Like there. That hurts. But my chest is fine."

"There's no pain when you breathe in or out?" Clint presses. "Any tenderness? You gotta be honest here with me, kid."

And sure, it doesn't necessary _feel_ like anything is broken, but Clint can only guess. He can only go off touch and memory of Barney's string of countless injuries throughout their childhood. Clint has fractured a rib or two (back in his circus days) so he kind of has an idea of what it feels like.

Still, he's mostly relying on Pietro to be completely honest with him, which Clint's pretty sure he is. Pietro doesn't really seem like he's in the mood to pretend, and keep up the illusion of being fine when he isn't. He looks exhausted, when Clint glances up at him.

He's too tired to waste his energy on lying.

Clint runs a hand lightly over Pietro's ribcage, giving both sides a final once-over. "No dents. Doesn't feel swollen either, at least not to _me_. And nothing's sticking out where it shouldn't be, so that's a good sign. Might've just bruised 'em. Got anymore frozen veggies? I'll get you a bag, once we clean you up."

"Should I get in the shower?"

"Not yet. Take a seat."

"Where?" Pietro asks, frowning. "In the tub?"

Gently, Clint urges Pietro back and towards the closed toilet lid. He helps him sit down, then takes a small step back to assess the damage. The eye looks worse (like that's somehow possible) and Clint's surprised that it's still open. He winces, just a little.

"That bad, hmm?" Pietro hums, slumping back a little. He cards a hand through his hair, brushing it back and off his forehead. "Well, at least you will still look at me, unlike my sister."

"Yeah. That's different, kid. She's your sister, so she only wants what's best for you." Clint says, his back facing Pietro. "I think she's pissed off at herself 'cause she wasn't there. She probably feels like she let this happen. Just like me and Barney. I never stopped feeling like it was my fault."

Pietro makes a noise behind Clint, maybe a low hum of agreement. It doesn't seem like he wants to continue the conversation any further, so Clint doesn't push it. Instead, he busies himself with the first aid kit and starts sorting through its contents, pulling out dressings and adhesive bandages, and a handful of gauze pads, _just in case_.

It doesn't look like Pietro will need all of that though. The worst of it really is his eye, which Clint can't do all that much for, except clean around the area and help reduce the nasty swelling.

Clint's in the middle of washing his hands, when he hears Pietro's question. He dries his hands, pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and hopes that Pietro will drop the question. Clint keeps his back firmly to Pietro as he starts gathering up what he needs first: soap and a damp washcloth.

"And what about you?" Pietro asks, _again._

"What about me?"

"Do you blame yourself?"

"For what happened to you? Not in the same way that Wanda does, no." Clint answers distractedly. "But if you mean Barney, then yeah, I do. That's a long story. It's not really something I wanna get into tonight."

He joins Pietro, a moment later, and tilts his head to the side just slightly so that he can get a better look. There's a lot of dried, crusted blood just below the swollen eye. Clint starts there, wiping gently at the area with the damp, soapy cloth, until it's mostly clean. He goes between the sink and Pietro, to wring out the cloth and apply more soap.

Pietro is _very_ lucky that most of the damage is superficial.

Which isn't something that needs to be said, really. Clint tries to focus on the task at hand. There's very little dirt or debris in any of the wounds, except the gash running along the outside of Pietro's elbow. Clint cleans it, dabbing the damp cloth against it, then dries it and applies some antibiotic cream to the wound.

Once he's finished, he dresses the wound carefully with a thin bandage, winding it around and _around_ , until it feels snug enough that it won't slide off, but not tight enough that it's uncomfortable. He finds a safety pin at the bottom of the first aid kit and uses it to secure the bandage.

Pietro doesn't so much as make a sound.

There's a sharp intake of breath, every so often. A wince or a hiss of pain, but he doesn't complain. Doesn't smack Clint's hands away, as he did with Wanda's. Clint tries to be whatever Pietro needs him to be; supportive, comforting, _kind_. Quiet.

Clint doesn't talk that much either. Not when it feels like there's too much to be said, and he wouldn't even know where to begin. So he gets to work on the butterfly closure strips. This, he's familiar with. Clint pieced Barney back together so many times over the years that he eventually lost count, and this was always part of the routine of fixing his brother back up again.

He only hopes that he can somehow do the same with Pietro. Clint inhales slowly and works on the first butterfly strip. There's a deep little gash on Pietro's forearm (not deep enough to need stitches, but not shallow enough to leave alone).

"It's looking a lot better." he says, gentle, like praise. Encouragement, because Pietro needs to hear something _kind_ and reassuring. "And I'm almost done. Once we're finished, I'll go talk to Wanda. Convince her that you're fine for the night."

"You will?" Pietro frowns.

"Yeah. I used to fix Barney up all the time. He'd fight for a living. Not boxing, but-well, it was kinda like that. Just less..." Clint says, and trails off mid-sentence, distracted by the butterfly strip.

Leaning in closer, Clint ducks his head to get a better look. He applies the bandage width-wise, along one side of the cut, then seals the wound shut by pressing the skin together, before pressing the other side of the bandage down. And then comes the gauze pad that Clint just _knew_ would come in handy.

He reaches back and swipes one off the basin. "One down, two to go."

Pietro grits his teeth, _hard_ , when Clint cleans the next cut. It's the first time all night that he hasn't tried to keep himself in check, and that worries Clint. The gash is on his bicep, and just like the one before it, it doesn't need stitches.

But it's a little longer than the previous cut, so Clint doubles up on butterfly strips. "How bad is it?" he asks, eyes darting between Pietro's face and away, back down to his arm.

"It stings." is all Pietro manages, jaw clenching.

"You have _massive_ biceps. Like they're ridiculously big. Has anyone ever told you that?" Clint says, and sure, maybe he's rambling just a little. He's trying to distract Pietro, however he can. Even if it means talking about _this_. "I mean it. They're massive."

Pietro's laugh is breathy, and slightly strained. He looks amused, with the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he looks down at Clint, but that's quickly erased. Pietro gasps suddenly, when Clint pinches the skin of the wound together, then seals it. It has to be done. _Has_ to be, even if Clint hates those sharp intakes of air, and the small grunts of pain.

"Hey. Hey, focus on me. _Talk_ to me." Clint encourages. "Talking helps. I bet you won't even feel it towards the end, if you just keep talking. We're almost there." he says, and slides one hand around to cup the back of Pietro's neck.

"I don't- _ah_. No, I don't have anything to talk about."

"Sure you do. Why don't you tell me about your family?" he asks.

And that's a big no-no, if the look Pietro shoots Clint is anything to go by. Not tonight, anyway. Not like this. Clint sucks in a breath and nods, and turns back to the sink, for a moment. He strips off the latex gloves, tries to ignore the fact that _yep_ , that is definitely Pietro's blood on the used pair of gloves, and then he reaches for another pair.

"Guess I'll talk about myself then." Clint says. "You know, I once got so drunk that I woke up in bed with the lion tamer." he pauses, then quietly adds underneath his breath: "And one of the contortionist twins. I still don't know which one."

* * *

Translations:

 **Ne razumijem** : I do not understand.  
 **moja sestra** : my sister.  
 **moja ljubav** : my love.  
 **Zašto ste tako tvrdoglavi, Pietro?** : "Why are you so stubborn, Pietro?"  
 **Neću ići** : I will not go.  
 **Ali što** : But what  
 **Zašto si ga doveo ovdje?** : Why did you bring him here?  
 **Ja ga ne želim ovdje da me vidi ovakvu** : I do not want him here to see me like this.  
 **Ti mu ne želim ovdje?** : You do not want him here?  
 **Ne ovako** : Not like this.


	25. Chapter 25

Clint | **Steve**

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

Clint does what he can, but he eventually runs out of things to say, and Pietro gets that look back in his eyes, the one that tells Clint he's a million miles away. There's less and less for them to talk about, since Clint's fresh out of stories, and there's a hard set to Pietro's jaw that kind of makes it seem like he's not really in the mood to listen to more of Clint's nervous rambling.

He's never been the type to talk, when nervous or unsure. But something about Pietro-something about this whole situation, maybe. The parallels to Barney and when they were younger-makes Clint's talk and _talk_ , even if he should probably shut up.

Still, Clint's never really known when to quit, especially not when it comes to Pietro. There's still a lot to be discussed (like when, where, _how)_ but whenever Clint tries to broach the subject, Pietro crawls right back up into his shell.

Which is the exact opposite of what Clint wants right now.

Pietro's perched on the edge of the tub, while Clint tends to his eye. His head is angled slightly to the side, so that Clint can get a better look at his injuries. The eye itself seems fine, at least, and Pietro can still move it, left to right, left to right. Clint tested it earlier, just like he used to with Barney.

There's no blood in the white of the eye, which is _also_ a good thing. It's a little red, but doesn't look too badly damaged. Clint dabs away some of the darker dried blood that he somehow missed earlier with a damp cotton ball, and it's strange because there aren't a lot of open wounds on this side of Pietro's face, which makes Clint think: _that's not Pietro's blood_.

Once he's finished, Clint throws the cotton ball into the small wicker bin in the corner of the room, along with his third (and final) pair of latex gloves. He strips the gloves off and dumps them in the bin, happy to be rid of them.

"I think we're about done here." Clint announces, while he's in the middle of lathering his hands up with soap, too distracted to hear Pietro get up behind him. Clint washes his hands underneath a warm spray of water, dries them off on a towel, then turns around.

Pietro's in a little bit of a situation.

He's tangled up in his denim jeans and can't seem to get them off. Not completely, anyway. He's gotten them about halfway down his legs, but every time he tries to stretch and pull them the rest of the way off, he winces and his hand flies to his ribs, cradling the area tentatively.

"Are you _trying_ to break a rib?" Clint asks lightly.

"What does it look like I am _trying_ to do?" Pietro says, and it almost sounds like he's mimicking Clint by trying to put on as much of an American accent as possible.

But instead of being offended (or concerned that _that's_ what Pietro thinks Clint's accent actually sounds like) Clint finds that he's amused. It's a really bad accent. Like bordering on offensively bad. Worse than when Tony tries to imitate Steve.

"It looks like you're trying to bend in half."

"Close," he says, with a sharp smile. "But no. I want to get out of these. My pants."

Nodding, Clint steps closer. "Well, you look _just_ like that contortionist I mentioned earlier. You're doing a good job. Maybe we can runaway to the circus together after all." he says. "Or maybe I'll just help you out of these."

Pietro pulls a face and shrugs. "Or maybe you could just stand there and stare some more. That might also help."

"If you're showering," Clint begins, as he comes to kneel in front of Pietro. He tugs the jeans the rest of the way _down_ , down his calves, until his pants are pooled around his ankles. "Then I'll have to cover your bandages. Don't want any of them getting wet."

"I'll be careful." Pietro says, from somewhere above Clint. His voice sounds strained.

Clint pointedly doesn't look _up_. Or anywhere, actually, since Pietro's jeans are still very much down around his ankles. He focuses on the next task, always the next: shoes and socks.

"You know, it'd probably be easier to get your pants off if you weren't still wearing shoes." Clint says, and huffs out an exaggerated sigh. He unlaces Pietro's sneakers one at a time. "That might make it easier."

"Perhaps."

"Socks on or off?" Clint asks, leaning back a little to meet Pietro's eyes.

"Do you usually shower with socks on?"

"What, you don't?"

Pietro pulls _another_ face. This one is a little less skeptical, and full of amusement. "Socks off, please." he says, and so Clint takes his socks off one by one (which really isn't something he'd do for just _anyone_ ) and dumps them on the floor next to the black and gold sneakers.

One of Pietro's hands comes to grip Clint's shoulder, steadying himself. He seems to realize that his fingers are digging into Clint's skin, and _hard_ , so he uncurls his hand a little. Doesn't remove it entirely. Probably doesn't have enough faith in himself to not fall over. It goes unspoken between them that Clint won't baby Pietro, and in return Pietro won't pretend that he's fine if he isn't.

And it's obvious that he isn't.

He sways above Clint dangerously, nails digging through the fabric of Clint's t-shirt, hard enough to leave a mark.

There's not much that Clint can do, not from down here. And maybe not even from up _there_. Pietro brushes it off as nothing more but exhaustion ("I had quite a day" are his exact words") but Clint still feels something like worry twist in his chest. His hand flies out and grips Pietro by the waist, just above his hip.

"Easy."

"I said I would be careful." Pietro reminds. "And I will be."

"What, this is what you call being careful? You look like you're about to hit the tiles." Clint says, frown deepening. He realizes that Pietro's jeans are still around his feet, constricting his movements, but right now he's a little more concerned with keeping Pietro upright. "Wanna sit? I'll help."

"No." Pietro shakes his head. "I want you to get me out of these pants, old man. Think you're up to it?"

Clint's frown disappears, even if only for a moment, and he feels a faint smile tugging at his lips. Wordlessly, he helps Pietro slip his feet out of the holes in his jeans, then stands up. For some weird reason, Clint starts folding the pants. Because, well, he's not exactly sure what to do next.

Or where to look.

Pietro's standing in the middle of the bathroom with just pair of boxer briefs on, and it's not even like _that._ It's more that this is the least amount of clothing he's ever seen Pietro in and all he wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket, maybe grab him a cup of something warm, and make sure he knows that he's not alone, because he isn't.

He doesn't have to be, at least. But judging by his expression, he might want to be.

"Why are you covered in paint?" Pietro asks, mouth twitching at the corners. He starts pointing out the dots of paint splattered across the older man's skin, amused. "It's all over you. Like spots on a dog. What happened?"

"That's-I left you a message. It's a long story." Clint stammers. "And I don't know why I said that, since you don't have your phone and I _know_ that. I should go have that talk with Wanda." he says, mostly to himself, because Pietro's smile is gone and it looks like he's zoning out again. "But I'll grab you some plastic wrap first."

Pietro's dark brows draw together in a frown. "Why?"

"For the bandages," Clint explains, _again_. "You should be able to wrap them yourself, if you want, but I can come back and-"

"I can do it." Pietro interrupts. He's stepping closer into Clint's space suddenly, expression carefully neutral, but his eyebrows are still pinched together. "Leave it outside the door and I'll take care of it. That is unless you think you should join me in the shower."

Clint opens his mouth, shuts it. Opens it. "Ah-that's probably not the best idea right now, all things considered." he settles on, and it sounds weak even to Clint, but it's true.

"Suit yourself." Pietro says, shrugging. It's a jerky movement, and looks like it pains him. "I want to thank you, Clint. For this."

"Don't thank me. I'd do just about anything for you." Clint says, then wets his too dry lips and glances away. "If you need me, I'll just be outside with your sister. Actually, I think it's me that we should be worried about, not you. I don't think Wanda likes me very much."

"She will think that I talked you out of it. Out of driving me to the ER." Pietro says. "Which means she will like you even less."

Clint considers that, then shrugs. "Doesn't matter. At least you'll still like me."

There's a small smile gracing Pietro's lips as Clint pauses in the doorway and looks back at him. He hovers for a moment, lingering perhaps a little longer than he should. It feels weird, to walk away after all of _that_. The blood, bruises, tears. All of it.

Maybe if things were different between them, he could stay and actually help with this part, but Clint doesn't stay and Pietro doesn't ask him to. And maybe this is just how it has to be, for as long Pietro needs it to be.

Clint closes the door behind him and steps out into the narrow hallway. He pulls out his phone and brings up Steve's number, typing up a hurried message before he stuffs his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. Then, he makes his way towards the kitchen, and doesn't realize until he's halfway there that he's still holding Pietro's pants in one hand.

That earns him a rather strange look from Wanda. She's sitting at the small kitchen table, drumming her fingers against the polished surface impatiently.

He's barely in the room before she's out of her chair, and it scrapes against the linoleum floor like nails on a chalkboard. Clint's never seen her look so worried before (granted he's never actually seen all that much of her, except for their little accidental meeting at the bar, but he's _still_ never seen her look like this before).

Like she's bracing herself for the worst.

"Alright, _before_ you start talking," Clint begins, holding one hand out in front of him warily. "Just hear me out. I didn't get talked out of anything. He's doing better. Really, he is. It's not as bad as it looks."

Wanda's eyes widen incredulously. "Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"No. No, it isn't. I just-listen, kid, I've been here before." he says. "My brother used to go out drinking and he'd pick fights with guys twice his size, and come home looking worse than that. It always looks bad, at first. Then it gets better."

"That is not how my brother behaves."

"I know it's not. He's a good kid."

"Did he-" Wanda trails off, hesitating. "Did he talk to you? About what happened? Because he wouldn't let me in the room with him today, when he spoke with the officer. He wouldn't talk to me when we got home either. So I called you."

"And I'm glad that you did." Clint sighs, and leans back against the kitchen bench behind him. He's still holding onto Pietro's worn denim jeans. "He didn't have that much to say. I think I did most of the talking, since he didn't really seem up to it, and I didn't want to push him. Not after the crappy day he's had."

"My brother can be stubborn."

"Has he always been that way?" he asks, eyes downcast.

"Yes." she nods. "Always."

"Good. Well, not _good_ , not always. But in times like this a little stubbornness can help. That's what got Barney through. My brother," Clint explains. "Always so damn stubborn. Too proud to ask for help, so I had to act like he was doing _me_ a favor by letting me help him out. Food, rent, whatever."

Wanda's mouth twitches at the corners slightly, the hint of a smile. "Is he like you?" she asks. "Stubborn, like you? Easily persuaded by my brother, like you are?"

"He was like me, in ways."

"Was?"

"Barney died. It was a long time ago. Six years, I think. Yeah. Six years. I keep forgetting that he's not around. Doesn't feel like he's gone, because he was never around that much in the first place. Which is why I still talk about him like he's here." Clint says, averting his gaze, and if his voice comes out a little more strained, Wanda doesn't comment on it.

Instead, she steps closer, until she's leaning against the counter next to Clint. Her arms are folded tight around her middle, like that's the only way she can keep herself together. Clint wonders if he's closer to falling apart than she is. He sure feels like it.

"What was he like?" she asks quietly, with wide, inquisitive eyes.

Clint lifts his shoulders in a weak attempt at a shrug. "He was a pain in my ass. God, he was an asshole." he says, more to himself than to Wanda, really. "But he was _also_ a good guy. He just got lost."

"So did my brother. Not like that, but in his own way." Wanda says, lightly touching Clint's forearm. "I'm still sorry for your loss."

"It's fine." Clint says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Barney's been gone for years now."

"But you talk about him like he is still around. You must still miss him."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about brothers."

Wanda's silence makes Clint think that maybe she _doesn't_ know what they say about brothers. Which is fine, really, because Clint's already doubting whether the quote actually even applies to brothers. He heard someone say it about women, once. It was probably Tony.

"Can't live with them," he says. "Can't live without them. He was one of those people. The kind that drive you real crazy when they're alive. And when they're not, well, they still find ways to get to you."

"So you _do_ miss him."

"Of course I do. He was my big brother." Clint says. "Speaking of brothers, you said yours got lost? And I don't think you meant it in a literal sense. Barney just didn't know what to do with himself, so he did everything. Never could figure out where he belonged."

"Yes, Pietro was lost. For a very long time." Wanda pauses, lips pulled together in a thin line. "We were only children, when our parents died. It changed him. And he blamed himself. I tried-Pietro has always been so stubborn. He wouldn't listen. Took it all upon himself, and I think I did the same."

Clint pushes himself off the counter suddenly, drops Pietro's jeans down on the small kitchen table, next to his keys, then turns to face Wanda. "It's not your fault. Whatever happened, it's not your fault, or your brother's. People just die."

"I know that. I _know_." she says. "But we were supposed to take care of them. Keep them safe, like they kept us."

"Sweetheart, no." Clint soothes, stepping closer. "Don't do that to yourself. You can't spend the rest of your life like this, blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. It's no way to live and it's not what they would've wanted for you."

There's a look in Wanda's eyes that Clint recognizes: grief.

And maybe not just for the loss of her parents, but for Pietro's current situation. Wanda drags the sleeve of her cardigan underneath her eyes, wiping at the faint smudges of mascara there. She doesn't answer Clint, not for a _long_ moment, and when she does, it's with a small nod. Clint fixes her with a smile, hopes that it's enough, even though he knows it isn't; losing Barney felt like losing a part of himself.

Pietro's not _gone_ , but he's still hurting, and Clint can sympathize with Wanda's grief. That kind of loss resonates deeply with him. He felt it every single time that Barney walked through the door, all banged up and broken. But he guesses it's a little different with twins, and her pain is probably amplified tenfold.

"I see parts of my brother now that I haven't seen in years." Wanda says, and when her voice wavers slightly, she clears her throat to be rid of it. "He kept it hidden, at first. It was like you were his little secret. Something good that he didn't want to share with anyone else."

 _Something good_.

Clint ducks his head. His chest feels oddly tight, but not in a bad way.

He doesn't know what to say back to that, since he's always believed that Pietro was his little slice of something good-his glimpse of happiness, a taste of the good life-and not the other way around. Yet, here Wanda is, telling Clint all about how Pietro privately gushes over him. Or, how he used to.

"Yeah? Well, he's a good kid. He's more than that."

The first word that comes to Clint is: sunshine. For lack of a better word, Pietro is _sunshine_. Warm, bright, kind of dizzying. It sounds sweet, in Clint's head, but probably sounds lame outside of it. So rather than share, he keeps it to himself.

Clint finds himself copying Wanda's posture inadvertently, both arms coming to wrap around his middle. "He's something else." he says, a fond smile on his lips.

And then he remembers that he has a probably _very_ anxious Pietro waiting on him (or, waiting for the plastic wrap, more specifically). He finds it easily enough, with Wanda's help, then moves back towards the bathroom. Clint swears that he hears the door click shut-maybe Pietro was listening in on his conversation with Wanda-but he doesn't dwell on that thought for very long.

He sets the plastic wrap down on the floor, raps his knuckles against the door lightly, then turns to leave.

Wanda's waiting for him in the kitchen, with several takeaway menus spread out across the table. There aren't enough groceries in the house to pull something together from scratch, she tells him. It doesn't need to be said that Pietro was on a grocery run and _that's_ why the fridge and cupboards are emptier than usual.

They order Chinese while Pietro showers, and once Wanda's off the phone, she fixes Clint with a look; narrowed eyes, lips pursed together tightly. And then she makes a noise in the back of her throat, something like a low hum of disapproval.

Clint wonders if she dislikes his clothes, or _him_.

He isn't sure what would offend him more, since he actually likes the clothes he has on (sure, they're meant for housework days and messy paint jobs, but they aren't _that_ daggy) and he also kind of likes his face. Apparently it's the pain stains and splotches all over Clint's skin that bugs Wanda, so he's officially booked in for a shower after Pietro finishes up.

It feels weirdly domestic, like he's a member of the Maximoff household. Clint has to admit that it's nice to feel like he's part of a family, even if it's only for a night, and not exactly under the best circumstances. It's not ideal. Not how Clint would've liked to see Wanda again, and it's definitely not how he wanted to be invited over to spend the night either, but it is what it is.

And all Clint can do now is deal with it.

Wanda instructs him on where he can find towels and new clothes to change into (in Pietro's room, at the very end of the hall). She tells Clint that he's "smaller in size" compared to her brother, so he should be able to fit into most of Pietro's clothes. And yeah, okay, he isn't as broad as Pietro, isn't as bulky either because Pietro is _seriously_ toned, but Clint's still not down with being called small. He's a little shorter than Pietro, but only just.

As if sensing that, Wanda's mouth twitches at the corners, like she's fighting a smile. "I meant-"

"I know what you meant." Clint says. "It's fine, really. Your brother is basically the Hulk, just less green."

* * *

As soon as the shower's free, Wanda steers Clint towards it. He doesn't bump into Pietro in the dimly lit hallway. Doesn't venture into his room either, since Wanda offers to fetch the clothes for him; that might have something to do with the fact that after Pietro got out of the shower, he headed straight for his room and closed the door behind him without so much as a word.

Clint wants to follow, _of course he does_. But he won't, not unless Pietro asks him to.

He said that he wanted Clint here, wanted him close by. Close doesn't always mean _with_. It can mean just being nearby, in the next room or out in the hall. Clint's content to sleep on the couch.

That's if he can even sleep at all.

It's only once he's alone that Clint realizes how angry he still is. He tries to focus on something else, like he has been trying (and failing) to do since he got here. Pietro's a wreck and Wanda isn't much better, and neither of them deserve any of this.

Clint braces himself against the sink and closes his eyes, for a moment. Faintly, he hears the sound of raised voices and wonders if it's coming from Pietro's bedroom, or a different apartment on their floor.

Eventually, the muffled shouting grows quiet, and Clint can hear himself think again. He pulls himself away from the sink and gives the bathroom a once-over. It's quaint and significantly less decorated than the other parts of the house. There's less stuff, for starters. And less color, too, apart from the bright shower curtain; it looks like a kaleidoscope, and Clint's not sure how he missed it the first time he was in here.

The tub doubles as a bath and a shower, something else that Clint's only just noticing.

It's not too cramped, but it isn't ridiculously large either, unlike Stark's bathroom. Tony's shower is encased in delicate, frosted glass and there's some sort of stone bed against the far wall, which is really just too much, even for Tony.

But this one isn't bad at all.

Clint strips out of his clothes, starting with his t-shirt. He unbuttons it slowly, then peels it off and drops it on the edge of the sink. He's wearing a pale undershirt underneath, but that comes off just as easily and Clint adds it to the pile. Next, he pulls his boots off and lines them up in front of the empty tub, next to Pietro's sneakers.

It isn't until he glances up at his reflection in the mirror that he realizes Pietro wasn't exaggerating when he said that Clint was covered in paint.

Because he is.

Not large, thick stripes of paint. Small dots of color, like freckles, but only blue. Clint's never met anyone with blue freckles before. He distinctly remembers the light dusting of pale brown freckles on Pietro's shoulders.

It's a nicer thought, nicer than dwelling on Pietro's bruises and butterfly stitches. He tries not to think about it too much, about how his hands were covered in Pietro's blood (well, not his _hands_ since he was wearing gloves. And he wasn't covered in it, really, but it was still there. It was still bad). He tries _so_ hard not to think about it, even just for a moment.

Once he's out of the rest of his clothes, Clint adds them to the pile that balances precariously on the edge of the sink. He pulls the shower curtain back and climbs inside.

It's _too_ hot, at first. Almost scalding. Clouds of steam swarm Clint's vision, and it's starting to feel a little too much like a sauna when the cold water finally kicks in. He fiddles with both taps, adjusting the pressure and the temperature until it's _just_ right.

There's a bottle of something pink in the corner of the tub, elevated on a small shelf, that catches Clint's eye. He picks it up, flicks the lid open and sniffs, and _yep_ , that is definitely some kind of fruit. It's strong, but there's not much else in the shower to lather himself up with.

So he uses the pungent strawberry shower gel and scrubs at his skin until he feels clean again. Once that's all over and done with, and Clint's fairly sure that there isn't a speck of paint left on his body, he ducks his head underneath the steady spray of water.

His entire body feels rigid, wound up. He can't even imagine how Pietro feels if he's feeling like _this_. Strung out, and _tense_. His muscles ache and there's the beginnings of a headache throbbing faintly behind his eyes.

Stepping back and out of the spray of water, Clint digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until there are spots in his vision.

He doesn't linger in the shower. It's not like the paint was _everywhere_ , coating his skin. Clint switches off both taps and drags the shower curtain back across, revealing that his clothes are now gone from the sink and have been replaced by ones that must belong to Pietro. He spots a fluffy green towel on a nearby rack that wasn't there before either, and reaches for it.

Wanda's doing, of course.

And maybe it should bother him that he didn't hear the door open _or_ close, and that he didn't even notice that someone was in here with him, but he's mostly just grateful for the clean clothes and the unexpectedly warm towel. Clint climbs out of the shower and dries himself off.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Clint steps closer towards the pile of clothes and sorts through them: a black v-neck shirt with long sleeves, a pair of fleece track pants and some navy blue boxer briefs.

He starts with the briefs and the track pants, then the v-neck. It's not as loose fitting as Clint would've expected, but it still hangs off his leaner frame, if only a little. Clint adjusts the shirt, fidgeting with the sleeves nervously. He rolls them up to his elbows, exposing a stray fleck of paint on his right forearm.

Clint uses his towel to wipe away some of the steam from the mirror.

There's some stubble growing along his jaw and a dot of white paint just near his left temple. He accepts the fact that he's probably going to be covered in paint for the remainder of his life and turns away from the mirror, but not without one last glance.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks.

It's not that he looks like shit. Except he does. He looks exhausted. Feels it, too, and it seems to hit him out of nowhere. Clint grips the edge of the basin and bows his head, exhaling a low sigh as his eyes slip shut.

He stays like that until his phone vibrates loudly somewhere on the basin, disturbing the silence. Clint jolts away from it, stung, startled. He doesn't know why it bothers him as much as it does. Still, he reaches for the iPhone and drags the notification panel down. Two new messages from Steve.

 **[7:47PM]:**

 **Sure, Barton. I can talk. Unless it's about the party.**

 **[7:48PM]:**

 **I'm not allowed to discuss it with you.**

[7:49PM]:

What?

[7:49PM]:

No, it's not about the stupid party.

 **[7:53PM]:**

 **Oh, don't do that. Don't call it stupid in front of Stark. Or Natasha, actually.**

[7:55PM]:

I don't give a shit about Stark, ok?

 **[7:57PM]:**

 **You said you needed a favor and you don't ask for those lightly. I'm guessing it's not about the party. You're sure this is something you want to talk about over the phone? I can always swing by tomorrow.**

[8:01PM]:

Might not be home tomorrow. Think you can swing by anyway, feed Lucky for me?

 **[8:03PM]:**

 **Yeah, I can do that.**

 **[8:05PM]:**

 **Is that the favor?**

[8:07PM]:

Yes, but also no. It's part of it. Look, it's complicated. The favor is work related, so there's a chance that you might say no. A big chance. But I still have to ask. Were you at the precinct today?

 **[8:09PM]:**

 **I was there. Why?**

[8:13PM]:

A kid came in. I don't know what time, maybe around lunch or just after? Tall, fair, a little bruised up. Did you talk to him? Take his statement? I'm not asking to know the details of what he said. Whatever he said, it's something he has to tell me on his own.

 **[8:15PM]:**

 **Then what are you asking? You know I can't discuss this kind of stuff with you.**

 **[8:16PM]:**

 **And how do you know all of that anyway?  
**

[8:19PM]:

Because I know the kid. I know him. And I just need to know that you're working on the case. That you have an idea of who did this and you can charge them for it. I need some good news right now. Something I can tell him so that he'll sleep a little easier.

 **[8:23PM]:**

 **Clint.**

 **[8:24PM]:**

 **Even if I wanted to discuss any of that with you, I can't.**

 **[8:26PM]:**

 **All I could say is that we don't have anyone in custody. **This isn't their first attack, but I'm determined to make it the last. That's all I can say at this stage. I wish I had better news.****

 **[8:28PM]:**

 **Your friend seems like a good kid. How's he holding up?**

[8:30PM]:

Not so well, but better than me. He's tough.

 **[8:32PM]:**

 **Are you two close?**

[8:33PM]:

Yeah, we are. We're very close.

[8:34PM]:

There's no one in custody, but you have suspects, right? If this isn't their first attack, then you've gotta have suspects. Think I could get a couple names? Maybe follow up some leads?

 **[8:36PM]:**

 **And then what? You beat them half to death? That's not how it's supposed to work, Clint. You can't take the law into your own hands and I thought you of all people would know that by now. It's the law for a reason.**

 **[8:38PM]:**

 **The most I can do for you is keep you in the loop. No details or names, just updates. That's all I can do for you. And even then, I'm not sure I feel good about it. Not with where your head's at right now.**

[8:40PM]:

Sure. I appreciate it. Thanks, Rogers.

 **[8:41PM]:**

 **Clint?**

[8:42PM]:

Yeah?

 **[8:45PM]:**

 **Don't do anything stupid.**

[8:47PM]:

Come on. Does that sound like me? Stupid's not my style.

* * *

 **A/N:** Spoiler alert: Snowball makes an appearance in the next chapter.


	26. Chapter 26

Clint | **Natasha**

* * *

SUN 7 JUNE

Pietro barely touches his food.

He pokes at the dumplings, but only stuffs two or three into his mouth. Clint's not much better, though his lack of appetite is probably for a different reason. He can't seem to drag his eyes away from Pietro's face. The bruises, the nasty looking scrapes, all of it. It's not exactly pretty.

It's rude to stare, he knows. And ridiculous, too, since he was the one that helped clean Pietro up. He saw all of it first-hand, yet, looking at it now underneath the dim light of the kitchen, it feels like he's looking at it for the first time. It feels like he's crossing the threshold into the apartment and watching it play out all over again: Pietro, with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his eye, and a fat, bloodied lip.

One of Clint's hands curls around his knee tightly, and he tells himself it's not to stop himself from shaking, but it is, _it is_.

He shifts his gaze from Pietro to Wanda, who is picking at her plate disinterestedly as well. They share a look (well, at least Clint thinks it's a _look_ , the kind where she's trying to silently convey that she's still worried sick about her brother, as is Clint) and then Pietro glances up, a frown already set in place as he catches them exchanging looks.

"What is it?" he asks, setting his chopsticks down on the table. "Is there something on my face?"

"Yeah, you got a little something here." Clint says, teasing, and gestures to the spot on his own mouth. "Oh, almost. Just a little more to the left and then-oh, shit. Did I say left? I meant right. sorry. I'm always getting those mixed up. Here," he offers, reaching across the table.

It's easy enough to do, since the table is a tiny little thing positioned in the middle of the room. Clint wipes at the corner of Pietro's mouth with his napkin, and there's actually something there, this time. He doesn't realize until he's dabbing at the spot that it's a fleck of dried blood.

"There was nothing on your face, brother." Wanda says, smiling thinly. "Well, there is _now_. Though I don't know what it is."

"It has a name." Pietro replies.

"Mhmm. It _does_ have a name." Clint nods, leaning back in his chair. He folds his napkin up and sets it off to the side. "Wait, what was my name again? My old age makes me get all forgetful. That's why I keep you around, to remind me."

Pietro shakes his head and makes a _tsk_ sound against his teeth. "Old man."

"Ah." Clint says, in between sips of water. "That's right. You gonna eat all of those?" he asks, gesturing towards Pietro's plate. There's a small mountain of dumplings, untouched. He wants Pietro to finish them himself, yet he's barely had all that much since they sat down.

"I might." he shrugs.

"You _will_." Wanda corrects. "You're wasting away, brother. You need to eat. It will help you feel better."

Pietro grimaces and slumps lower in his chair. He plays with the chopsticks, pushes the food around his plate, but doesn't make an actual attempt to eat any of it. "Nisam jako gladan." he says, somewhat sharply, eyes downcast. He won't look at either of them. "Clint može ga imati."

And sure, Clint doesn't speak their language, but he knows his name well enough by now to realize that whatever Pietro's talking about involves _him_. Clint swallows a large gulp of water, emptying the glass. He feels parched, throat too dry, lips cracked. Setting the glass back down on the table, Clint pretends to be super interested in a spot on the tablecloth.

Then, he feigns interest in his now empty glass of water, running his finger along the rim of the glass. A bead of condensation dribbles down the side of the glass and drops onto the table.

Clint catches a couple more mentions of his name, but he doesn't really know what they're saying, or how to keep up with it. Words are exchanged for what feels like a _really_ long time, and when Clint tunes back in, it kind of feels like Pietro and Wanda are arguing, if Wanda's hushed tone and Pietro's sharp, heated words are anything to go off.

"Morate jesti više."

"Not hungry." Pietro says, and makes a point of actually _shoving_ his plate across the table, away from himself and towards Clint. "Not eating it."

Wanda rises from the table abruptly, to fetch a pitcher of cold water out of the fridge. And this is the moment that Pietro has been waiting for, apparently, because less than three seconds after Wanda's gone, he leans across the table towards Clint and casts a furtive glance in Wanda's direction. The light casts dark shadows across his face. Makes everything look worse than it is.

Or maybe it's always been that bad, Clint can't decide.

"You said that I could do what I wanted. I think I- _oh_." he murmurs, eyes dropping to the column of Clint's throat, before flicking down to his exposed forearms. There's a slight furrow to his brow, as he looks Clint over. "Those are my clothes. I didn't realize you were wearing them."

"Yeah." Clint says, and shifts a little in his seat.

He might be reading into it too much, but it doesn't feel like Pietro's admiring his clothes. Clint's not a particularly vain man, not really (if you asked one of his friends, they might have a different opinion) but Clint knows _that_ look. The once-over, lingering just a fraction too long on the parts of skin that aren't covered. It's a little distracting.

Ill-timed, too. Clint looks away. He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and scratches at the spot there idly, while waiting for Pietro to say _something_ , anything, Clint doesn't care what. When their eyes meet, there's something mischievous in Pietro's, a look that Clint recognizes.

Pietro settles for a casual, "They suit you."

"Yeah? Well, it was either this, or something out of Wanda's wardrobe. I'm not sure I have the legs for a dress." Clint murmurs that last part quietly enough that maybe Pietro will miss it, but he doesn't. It draws a laugh out of the younger man and his eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement.

It nearly takes Clint's breath away.

He's always been a sucker for Pietro's smile. Always loved that sharp twist of lips, the smugness, all teeth and bright eyes and _beautiful_. This one is a little softer though, and less of a smirk. It's something unexpected. Clint reaches across the table and covers Pietro's hand with his own.

Smiling, he runs the pad of his thumb over Pietro's soft skin, brushing over it lightly - mindful of the bruises and scrapes.

"I've seen your legs." is all Pietro says.

"Have you? Well, then you know I definitely _don't_ have the legs for a dress." Clint says and holds his other hand up when Pietro opens his mouth to argue. "This seriously isn't a conversation we're going to have right now. Or ever, actually. These tracks are just fine."

"Yes, they are." he agrees. "I think that I've had enough of this. That's what I was trying to say earlier, before I got distracted. I've had enough. You can pick at my leftovers, if you want. But I want to go to bed."

Clint's phone is somewhere on the table, he's sure of it. Once he finds it, he hits the home button and watches the screen light up. There are three missed calls, all from Natasha. Clint decides to deal with _that_ much later. He's not exactly in the mood for party talk.

The clock reads: 9:21PM

"It's a little earlier than I usually go to bed." Clint murmurs, then looks up at Pietro. "But if you want to, we can."

"We?" Pietro asks, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, well. Someone has to tuck you into bed. Read you a bedtime story. Check the closet for monsters." Clint says, gives Pietro's hand a final squeeze, then pulls away. He curls both hands over his knees, hidden underneath the tablecloth. "I'll crash on the couch. It doesn't look comfy, but all the best ones never do. At least it doesn't have plastic on it."

Pietro's expression is carefully neutral, again. "And you're sure that's where you would rather be?"

 _No_ , Clint thinks, but doesn't say that. He can't. He _also_ can't look away, even if he wants to. It's such a shitty thought to have, but when he looks at Pietro, when he lingers on the dark bruises and bright red cuts, his chest tightens with guilt and he almost can't stand it.

Clint nods, jerky and unsure of himself. He's up and on his feet before he realizes what he's doing. _Air_. He needs air.

"I'll be fine. I've slept on worse."

"That's not what I asked." Pietro says, frowning.

He's half out of his seat, ready to follow Clint. To where, Clint doesn't know. To the ends of the Earth, maybe. Clint doesn't even know where he's going, so when Pietro asks, he comes up short and stammers something incoherent, before he thinks of an actual answer that involves real words.

Words. He's not exactly _great_ with them.

Clint swipes his phone up off the table. "I just have to make a quick call." he says belatedly, and nearly bumps into Wanda on his way out of the kitchen. He can't quite meet Pietro's eyes as he leaves, his stomach all twisted up into knots.

There's no balcony so Clint heads for the closest exit: the apartment door. Leaving it slightly ajar behind him, Clint walks towards the stairway. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet, but not unwelcome. It's almost soothing. Clint nearly drops his phone down a flight of stairs when he stuffs it in his pocket, only to discover that these are Pietro's track pants and there _aren't_ any pockets.

His iPhone hits the dusty floor with a definitive thud and lands dangerously close to the edge of the stairs. Clint bends at the knee to scoop it up, before rising to stand.

He checks for new messages, mostly out of habit. And, for a second, Clint half expects to find a new text from Pietro, or a silly Snapchat. It makes his heart sink a little when he looks over their message history from _before_. He skims over the last couple of hours. Then, Clint remembers Natasha's missed call notifications.

It's so unlike her that it startles Clint. Then again, it's _Natasha_ , who sometimes has a flair for the dramatic. Not that Clint would ever say that to her face. Or at all, actually, because she has little spies everywhere, he's sure of it.

According to Natasha, he's supposed to call her back immediately, because that's how their friendship works. Except it doesn't, and Clint's never been that great at returning calls, or replying to texts. When he drops off the grid, he's gone. He goes radio silent.

[9:25PM]:

What's wrong?

[9:26PM]:

Just know that if it's about my birthday or anything Stark related, I'm not in the mood. Really not.

 **[9:28PM]:**

 **I spoke with Steve.**

[9:30PM]:

So?

 **[9:32PM]:**

 **so don't do anything stupid. actually, I should probably be a little more specific. you tend to do stupid things even if you know they're stupid. just don't do this thing, Clint. don't look for these people. let Steve and the police do their job.**

[9:35PM]:

Yeah? Well, I was an officer, once upon a time. I think I know what I'm doing.

 **[9:36PM]:**

 **you were also a carnie, Clint.**

 **[9:38PM]:**

 **don't let your feelings cloud your judgment.**

[9:41PM]:

They're not. I know what I have to do.

 **[9:43PM]:**

 **oh?**

[9:45PM]:

You haven't seen him. I have to do something.

 **[9:47PM]:**

 **this won't undo anything, Clint. you of all people should know that by now.**

[9:50PM]:

I have to go. We'll talk later.

Clint switches his phone off, then slips it in between the waistband of his pants and his hip. He grips the wooden staircase railing until his knuckles turn bone-white from the force of it, protruding angrily against the skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, Clint turns away and makes a beeline for the apartment door. His chest feels heavier with each step he takes.

At least he isn't running away.

* * *

There's no sign of Pietro, only a mostly untouched meal and a half empty glass of something blue. Wanda's still there, picking at leftovers and sipping on a glass of wine. She barely glances up at Clint as he steps further into the kitchen.

He peers down the hallway and into the darkness. A thin crack of light is visible from underneath Pietro's door. Clint considers following it. Instead, he sits down at the table opposite Wanda, taking the exact same seat he'd been in earlier. It's a lot quieter now, Clint notices.

Like all of the air and life has been sucked out of the room, now that Pietro's gone. And that seems fairly accurate, actually. Pietro's got _so_ much life in him that it sometimes seems like he's bursting at the seams.

Sighing, Clint fishes out his phone and drops it onto the table. He scrubs both hands over his face tiredly. "He went to bed?"

Wanda answers that with a nod, then a thin purse of lips. She swirls the wine around in her glass. Probably for lack of something better to do. Clint peeks at her through the cracks of his fingers and watches the dark liquid go around and _around,_ strangely transfixed.

He's quietly craving something alcoholic.

"You wanna call it a night, sweetheart?" he asks, dropping both hands into his lap. "It's been a big day, for both of you. Might be better to put that glass down and get some shut-eye. I don't mind staying up. I'm used to late nights, so I'll keep watch."

"I don't think I could sleep." she answers.

"Might as well give it a shot."

Wanda's fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass tightly. "He won't eat. Won't sleep either, I think. How am I supposed to, knowing that he can't?"

And that, Clint gets. He really does. Unsure of whether he should try to comfort her or not, Clint ends up setting a hand on her shoulder, a brief touch. It lightens the corners of her dark eyes, at least. Makes her mouth curve into something that might've once grown into a proper smile, but just not tonight.

"There's nothing you can do for him right now." Clint says. "Yeah, you want to find those assholes and kick their teeth in, I get it. So do I. Hell, if we teamed up, we'd have a better shot at getting it done. But for tonight, we stay here. Sleep, heal, rest. Regroup in the morning. See where everybody's at."

Wanda narrows her eyes a little, like she's not sure whether she should trust in his words, in _him_. "You will watch over my brother? Make sure he doesn't hurt himself, somehow. He's good at that."

"Yeah, I will. Of course I will." Clint assures. "There's not much I wouldn't do for him."

"And I think there is very little he wouldn't do for you." Wanda says. She sips on her wine, before offering the glass to Clint. He accepts it warily; beer has always been more to his liking than wine. That, and whisky.

Unable to help himself, he asks: "Got any whisky?"

"No, only wine and vodka." she shakes her head, still watching him in that way of hers, so knowing and wise, even for how young she is. "I think I would prefer you to be sober if you're watching over Pietro. Still, I thought this might help you. Only a sip."

Clint lifts the rim of the glass up higher to his nose and sniffs at the wine. It doesn't smell too bad, he has to admit.

"Might take the edge off, I guess." he says, then tips the glass back and swallows a mouthful. It's sweet, but not sickening. Clint finds that he doesn't mind it all that much. "Not bad. I could still really use some whisky right about now, or a beer. What a day."

"Yes." Wanda agrees, nodding. "It was quite a day."

She accepts the glass back from Clint and downs the rest of it in two sips. Rising from the chair, she moves to leave, her hand brushing over Clint's shoulder as she passes him. Then, her lips on his forehead, a goodnight kiss. Clint doesn't have a sister (Natasha is the closest thing he's ever had to one) but if he did, then he'd want her to be just like Wanda, who is as fierce as she is kind.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. Everything will feel a lot better in the morning." he says, another promise he can't keep.

Wanda doesn't seem to mind. "Look after him. He's the only family I have left." she pauses, visibly torn. "Perhaps I could have more, one day. More family to come home to. Perhaps that family could be _you_."

"Yeah? You always wanted another big brother?"

"He's twelve minutes older." Wanda says, sighing. There's a smile dancing on her lips that makes Clint feel a little bit better about, well, all of it. "Not twelve years. He's not that much older."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll just take care of the dishes." he calls out after her, but Wanda just gestures for him to _shhh_ , one finger pressed over her lips as she disappears down the hallway. "It's not like I don't even live here or anything." he adds, muttering the words underneath his breath, but he's already scraping dishes and disposing of the half-empty takeaway containers.

He stacks the dishwasher and gives the table a final wipe down, clearing off any leftover rubbish. There's a dirty dishrag slung over his shoulder that he keeps wiping his hands on, even though they're clean. Clint can't stop picturing Pietro's blood _all_ over his skin.

In a fit of anger, he throws the rag into the sink, then grips the edge of the counter.

This isn't the first time he's felt like he might fall apart tonight, and he doubts it'll be the last. Clint focuses on his breathing: inhale, exhale. Inhale, _exhale_. He gathers himself up and slowly makes his way down the hallway, the floorboards creaking loudly beneath his feet.

He knocks, once. Twice. Pietro answers on the third.

Somehow, Pietro's room is just how Clint remembered it to be. Yet, different. It's all different now, he guesses. Clint's first thought is: _it doesn't look any better, the bruises look worse_. Pietro's dressed down, wearing a pair of navy blue satin boxers and-and, that's it. Clint's next thought, whatever it was, vanishes into thin air when the door swings open further.

He's not wearing anything else, just boxers. Clint pointedly averts his gaze, because _seriously_.

Then, Pietro sweeps a long arm out in front of him and gestures for Clint to step further inside the room. It's quite a dramatic sweep, and it makes Clint's mouth twitch at the corners, mildly amused. He steps closer, but doesn't cross the distance between them. As much as he might want to, it isn't his call to make.

Clint closes the door behind him and leans against it.

Sure, the bruising looks bad, but Clint's seen worse. He's even _had_ worse. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's what he wants to tell Pietro, too, but it just doesn't seem appropriate. The last thing Pietro probably wants to hear right now is that he's lucky.

"Are you here to tuck me in?" Pietro asks, tilting his head to the side curiously. "I didn't think you meant it."

"I'm just checking in. Making sure everything's ok."

Clint glances over the bedroom, takes it all in: the candles, the color of the walls, everything he tried to commit to memory from the other side of a Skype call. He wants to remember as much as he can. That way, it'll feel a little more real, and a _lot_ less like something he just made up in his head.

The room is messier than Clint remembers it being in the Skype calls. Clothes, sneakers and cat toys are scattered across the floor, but it isn't dirty. Just like the rest of the apartment, it's immaculately clean and Clint guesses that might be Wanda's doing. There's a gym bag on the floor in the middle of the room, unzipped to reveal a yoga mat, of all things.

 _That_ , he didn't see coming.

When he next looks up at Pietro, there's a sort of expectant look on his face. Clint's not sure what he's waiting for. Doesn't know what he wants out of Clint, or this situation. Still, he's willing to be whatever Pietro needs right now, even if that means _gone_.

"I noticed you didn't finish the rest of your dinner." Clint says quietly. "Not hungry?"

Pietro rolls his eyes. Of course he does. "You sound like Wanda. Is that why you're here, to lecture me?" he asks, and Clint sags against the door, deflated. "If so, then you can see yourself out. I ate what I felt like eating. That's all there is to say."

"Hey, slow down." Clint soothes, and holds his hands out in front of him in a way that he hopes is placating. "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?"

"You really gotta ask? I thought we went over this, kid." he says, exhaling a sigh, a small puff of air. Clint pushes himself off the door and moves towards Pietro slowly, inching closer and _closer_ , until he's just out of arms reach. "I'm here for _you_. Whatever that means. I'm here for any and all of it. The good and the bad."

"Well," Pietro begins, and wraps his arms tight around his middle in that same self-hug kind of stance that Wanda had fallen into earlier. "I think this is just bad. There's not so much good." he adds, scrunching up his nose. "It's not so good at all."

Clint's jaw clenches, when he skims over the dark bruises purpling across Pietro's chest and the small, jagged cuts. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say back to that, because sure, it's not good, but it could've been _so_ much worse. Could've ended with Pietro dead, or in a hospital bed, and even though this isn't exactly a blessing, it's better than losing Pietro entirely.

He doesn't say that.

 _Love_ , he thinks.

Maybe that's what that feeling in his chest is (tight, all-consuming, desperate). Clint's filled with relief, knowing that Pietro's alive and he's breathing, not dead and cold and _gone_. Love, maybe. It's something, that much Clint knows. Something that makes Clint feel sick at the thought of not knowing Pietro, of not having him.

Clint shakes that thought away.

When he glances up, Pietro's gone, his back now facing Clint as he rifles through a set of drawers on the opposite side of the room. Clint edges closer hesitantly. The scar winding across Pietro's back is on display and Clint's not sure if he should look away.

It begins halfway down his back, along the curve of his spin. Faded, yet ugly and red, _raw_. Clint wonders if it hurts (he hopes it doesn't). It runs along the length of his ribs horizontally, then curves around his hip, dipping low and disappearing.

"Does it hurt?" Clint asks quietly, and he's closer now.

He can see the way that Pietro's muscles tense, can hear that sharp intake of breath as it catches in his throat. Clint's own scar hurts, sometimes. Granted it's nothing like _that_. It isn't narrow and jagged, and seemingly never-ending. It doesn't look like it's always been a part of him either.

"Sometimes." Pietro says, shoulders drawn into a taut line. "Do you want to know how it happened?"

There's something rigid and sharp about his stance, like Clint's dangerously close to crossing a line that just isn't meant to be crossed. Pietro throws a brief look back over his shoulder, barely meeting Clint's gaze, before he turns away.

"Only if you want to tell." comes Clint's belated reply.

He reaches out to gently touch the puckered edge of the scar with the tip of his finger, lightly grazing over the skin. Clint wouldn't blame Pietro if he didn't want to share, if he wanted something that was his and only his. Sometimes, there are stories better left untold, and he wonders if this will be one of them.

Still, Clint continues his tentative exploration. He traces his pointer finger along the scar, across Pietro's ribs, and wishes he could use his mouth and his lips instead of his hands, he wishes he could do _something_ to make it better.

"I was ten."

"We don't have to do this, babe. I-"

Pietro sucks in a sharp breath, as Clint follows the scar, traces the curve as it dips down over Pietro's hipbone. He withdraws his hand abruptly, a dozen different apologies bubbling up in his throat, because it's not his scar or his story. Clint knows better than to poke and prod where it's not wanted.

"I was so worried about _you_." Pietro says, voice breaking over that last word. He jerks his shoulder forward, then pulls out a black t-shirt and drags it down over his head. "You fell and you hurt yourself, my silly old man. I thought that something bad might happen. Worse than falling and breaking bones, and there would be nothing I could do to stop it. _Again_."

"Again? Look, what happened to your parents-and what happened to me-it wasn't your fault. You have to believe that, kid, otherwise you'll-" Clint trails off, and moves to help Pietro into a pair of pants, but he smacks Clint's hand away.

It's a weak, half-hearted gesture. There's no real heat behind it, so Clint steps closer again and helps Pietro step into the Adidas track pants. He paints a grim picture, all dressed in black, one open-palmed hand pressed to his ribs, face all scrunched up in pain. Clint guides him over towards the bed.

Less than thirty seconds later, a giant cotton ball appears and launches itself at Pietro, landing on his lap.

Clint crouches in front of them, so that he's eye-level with the infamous Snowball. The blue-eyed kitten rubs against Clint's open hand, once, purring loudly. She trots across Pietro's thigh sweetly, inching closer towards Clint. He's a little too distracted to pay her all that much attention, too swept up in the hurt look written all over Pietro's face.

And maybe that's why she bites him.

Well, it's more of a _nip_.

Clint still pulls his hand away, mildly offended, but Pietro waves it off as a "love bite". Sure, it's full of love. Clint's probably imagining it, but Snowball looks almost smug as she curls up on the bed next to Pietro's thigh, her fuzzy question-mark shaped tail coiled up around her paws.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking." Clint says. "Thing is, sometimes I feel like I know. Like maybe I'm starting to finally get it. I'm usually pretty good at reading people, y'know." he adds, nodding along to himself. "But you? I can't get a read on you at the best of times. So this, well, it's throwing me off."

Pietro's expression gets all twisted up again, a grimace of pain, and it reminds Clint of how young he is. It's right _there_ , written all across his face. He looks vulnerable, yet hardened, somehow. A sharp set to his jaw, a distant look in his glossy eyes. Clint lowers his head and presses a quick kiss to the outside of Pietro's left wrist, where it's draped over his knee.

"Tell me what you need. I'll go, if you want me to. I'll stay." Clint offers. "Whatever you need. Tell me to go. Tell me to shut the hell up. I didn't drive all the way over here just to make things worse, so don't let me."

"I need," Pietro pauses, lips drawn together thinly enough that all of the color drains from them. "I need you here. Earlier, when you took that call, I thought that you weren't coming back. That it was perhaps too much for you. Not just tonight, but all of it. _Me_."

"You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"Don't joke." a frown. A hand shoving at Clint's shoulder lightly. "Not about this."

Clint shakes his head, even though he _gets_ it, he does. This, this doubt, this fear of being too much, too soon, is something that Clint's all too familiar with. "You really thought I'd leave? What, a couple bruises are supposed to scare me off?"

"Not just that." Pietro scowls. "All of it."

"A messy past isn't going to scare me off, if that's what you're worried about. God knows I've got one." Clint soothes. He shifts from his spot on the floor and moves so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Pietro.

Pietro's smile is small, at first. He ducks his head almost coyly, something that he rarely is. Always so cocksure and lippy. Clint always liked that about him (he still does). He likes that Pietro's bold, and cheeky. A little shit at times, sure, but Clint likes it even if he claims otherwise.

Slipping a finger under Pietro's chin, Clint tilts his head back carefully, wanting to see his eyes - and to make that smile grow, if he can. And if not, then he just wants to see Pietro, wants to feel like there's less distance between them.

"Like I said, you're not getting rid of me."

"Good." Pietro says, dropping his forehead down to Clint's shoulder. "I don't want to be rid of you."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere. Ever. You better make room for me, kid." Clint says, very matter-of-factly. "I like my coffee black, my bacon crispy, my eggs sunny side up, and my boyfriend-well, I like him just how he is."

Clint keeps an arm wound tight around Pietro's shoulder. He's not sure how long they stay like that, with Pietro tucked right up against his side, his head resting against the column of Clint's throat now. Pietro's breath comes in short, shallow bursts, until it slowly evens out. His eyes are shut and he almost looks peaceful.

Except that slight furrow in between his eyebrows that disrupts his otherwise smooth expression. His mouth twitches at the corners and he laughs, softly enough, at first, that Clint nearly misses it. He's glad that he doesn't, it's such a sweet sound.

"Something on my face?" Pietro asks.

"Nope." Clint says, and smacks his lips together. "I'm just looking. It's part of the whole relationship package, isn't it? I'm a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure that gazing at the other person while they're asleep is considered, y'know, nice. Romantic."

"This is less romantic while I'm still awake." Pietro teases. He cracks an eye open at Clint. "And I heard that it's rude to stare. Rude _and_ creepy. I don't usually do this."

"Ouch." Clint says, mock offended. He puts one hand over his heart and winces. "And here I was, being such a good boyfriend."

"You don't have to stare," Pietro says, and nuzzles closer against Clint's side. Then, he pulls back with a sharp hiss, like he's only just remembering his injuries. It gives Clint pause, too. Pietro paws at his jaw, rubbing at the spot tenderly, and Clint reminds himself to be a little more gentle. "I already know how bad it looks." he grits out.

Clint keeps an arm wrapped loosely around the younger man's shoulders. "So now you suddenly give a shit about looks? Come on. I don't care how it looks and I know you don't either. Not really. Bruises heal. You're still _you_."

"I don't even know what that _means_."

"God, you're always fishing for compliments, aren't you? You're still _you_ ," Clint makes a vague gesture with the hand that isn't still slung around Pietro's shaking shoulders; it takes Clint a moment to process that he isn't crying, but laughing. "Yeah, yeah. You know you're not bad looking. You're still you, with the nice hair and the pretty blue eyes."

"And you're still you," Pietro says, smiling crookedly. "Always so patient, hmm? So patient." he ducks his head suddenly, leaning in closer, closer, then he presses his lips against Clint's in a chaste kiss, a brush of bruised lips against Clint's own.

"Yeah, well." Clint manages, once Pietro pulls away. "It's the least I can do. Patience. I can be that. The-I can be patient." he stammers. It only makes Pietro's smile grow. "Come on, you can't just _kiss_ me and then expect me to, y'know. Think of actual words and stuff. I'm not so good at that. The whole word thing."

"The word thing?" Pietro repeats, unimpressed. "I don't know how people understand you." he adds, rising from the bed.

Snowball looks equally unimpressed at the sudden movement. The kitten stands up, too, as if to follow Pietro, but she ends up jumping off the side of the bed and disappearing somewhere underneath it. Clint wonders if she's the type of cat to scratch at ankles, or feet (he knew a cat _just_ like that, once).

He decides to jump to his feet as well. Unsure of what to do with himself, Clint ends up scratching at the back of his neck again. It's a habit. One of his better ones, at least, since it doesn't involve booze.

"I can still take the couch." he offers.

Pietro shoots him a look, eyebrows pinched together. "Or you can stop fidgeting and get in bed?" he counters, and something amused sweeps over his face as he pulls back the covers: there's a duvet, that crimson colored blanket that Clint remembers from the Skype call, and plain blue bedsheets.

There's also a small mountain of pillows. Clint works on disassembling it, picking off the pillows one by one. He toys with the fringe on one of the frillier pillows, before dropping it onto the floor with the rest of them. Then, without further hesitation, Clint climbs into bed. It's strange, at first. Sliding underneath the covers of a bed that definitely isn't his. The mattress feels comfy though, so there's that.

"You're sure about this?" Clint asks, dragging the duvet up. It's not _too_ cold, so he probably doesn't need the velvety-looking red blanket, but he pulls that up anyway. He shifts in the bed, tries to get comfy.

Clint's never had a problem with falling asleep in random places. Once he's out, he's _out_. Usually, he can fall asleep within minutes, but it doesn't feel like that kind of night. Pietro flicks the light off and the room is encased in darkness, except for the yellow-orange light that seeps in through the windows on the far side of the room; the glare of streetlights casts strange shadows across the floor.

"Idi na spavanje." Pietro sighs.

"Aw, come on." Clint pouts, just as the mattress dips beside him. The bed creaks underneath Pietro's weight. "That's so not fair. You know I don't understand you." he adds, and swears that he can hear the smile in Pietro's voice when he answers.

Of course, there's no real way of knowing. Not in the darkness of the room where Clint can only faintly make out the blurred lines of Pietro's shape. Clint has his suspicions confirmed though, when he hears Pietro laugh. It's more of an amused exhale of air, nothing too big and grand, but it still counts.

"Dobro." Pietro murmurs. "Ne želim da shvatiš."

"I- _dobro_. Dobro. What's that mean? _Dobro._ See, I'm getting the hang of this." he smirks. "Teach me? I'm a fast learner."

"Not tonight."

Clint doesn't answer that. Briefly, he considers curling up against Pietro's side, but decides against it.

Lying next to Pietro, shoulder-to-shoulder, is enough. They're both sprawled out flat on their backs, arms slack by their sides, like there's some sort of invisible line between them. It's probably not the best idea to get any closer - not with the way that Pietro's ribs are all banged up and tender. Clint seeks out Pietro's hand underneath the covers and tangles their fingers together tightly.

"Go to sleep." Pietro says quietly, _fondly._ He gives Clint's fingers a light squeeze. "I can hear you thinking. It will keep me awake."

Clint nods, realizes that Pietro can't actually _see_ him, and huffs out something in between a sigh and a laugh. Then, he somehow manages to answer without stumbling over his words, or screwing up too majorly. He's known for that.

"I'll try. That's the most I can promise. But you," Clint pauses. "You need to sleep, sweetheart. So sleep. I'll be here when you wake up and we can decide what to do from there. I'll be here. Cross my heart and all that other mushy stuff."

Pietro's quiet for so long that Clint wonders if he's already fallen asleep. "Noć, ljubavi." he says, thickly accented.

Again, Clint's not really sure what it means (tomorrow, he'll ask, but not tonight). That doesn't stop him from replaying the words on loop in his head. It's the last thing he thinks of as he falls asleep, drifting off shortly after Pietro does. He's almost out when he feels a slight dip in the mattress. Then, tiny little paws across the blanket. Then, nothing.

 _Ljubavi_.

Clint falls asleep under the bright glow of yellow-orange streetlights, his fingers still wound tightly with Pietro's.

* * *

 **A/N:** I had to fight this chapter every single step of the way.

Also, I saw CA:CW and everything hurts. I was hit with very unexpected Clint Barton feelings, so now I'm kind of in the middle of writing a CA:CW fic with lots of Hawksilver-y goodness.

Translations:

 **Nisam jako gladan:** I'm not very hungry.  
 **Clint može ga imati:** Clint can have it.  
 **Morate jesti više:** You need to eat more.  
 **Idi na spavanje:** Go to sleep.  
 **Dobro:** Good.  
 **Ne želim da shvatiš:** I do not want you to understand.  
 **Noć, ljubavi:** Night, love.


	27. Chapter 27

MON 8 JUNE

Of all things to wake up to, Clint didn't expect _that._

He wakes almost immediately, since he's never been a particularly light sleeper anyway (there isn't much that he can't sleep through, or on) but the feeling of something walking across his face is enough to stir him. It's heavy, solid, and not just a pillow or the corner of a soft, silky blanket. It shifts and breathes, and _moves_.

And it keeps moving.

Something sharp digs into Clint's forehead, as if on cue. He cracks open an eye and his vision is flooded with white. It takes him a moment longer than it probably should to realize what it is: fur.

 _Snowball_.

That same sharp paw digs into his cheek next, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from Clint. He considers moving, but decides against it - having a kitten scratch his face to pieces isn't really how he wants to go out. Also, moving would require effort, and Clint needs coffee first. _Always_.

Bony little paws slip and slide all across his face. Then, there's the brush of a claw against his chin, the faintest graze. Clint waits for it. Waits for a scratch or a bite, or both, but the kitten simply walks away.

One of Snowball's fluffy paws nearly slips inside Clint's mouth as she leaves, making Clint wrinkle his nose at the almost-intrusion. _Gross_. He watches the kitten tread across his torso carefully, like she's balancing precariously on a tightrope. Snowball moves down, down, down.

And, with all the blankets pooled down near his feet and tangled around his ankles, he's feeling a little on the vulnerable side when the kitten decides to settle right in his lap, just above all his tender parts.

Clint doesn't move. He's very, _very_ careful not to. And maybe it's because he's still groggy with sleep and the only thing that seems to get him functioning in the morning is coffee, or maybe it's because he's acutely aware of how close Snowball's claws are to some very delicate bits, but he can't move. Clint carefully scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away some of the residual sleepiness.

He blinks down at the kitten. It feels like she's waiting him out. For what, he doesn't know, but Clint _does_ know that he's not losing a staring competition to a cat.

Snowball refuses to look away, her sharp pin-shaped eyes locked on Clint.

It's a little weird, sure, but he still refuses to lose to a cat. A cute, sweet little thing, that he swears has it out for him. A fluffy devil spawn. She starts purring, then, like she's trying to prove him wrong. The sound is like a little motor.

Clint finds it strangely endearing. He lifts a hand and gently pats the top of her head, like he does with Lucky. Next, he tries a spot behind one of her pointy white ears, and that gets her purring even louder. Clint's quietly impressed with himself when the kitten starts up the whole bread-kneading thing, even if it makes him hiss and instinctively shift away from her, sinking further into the mattress.

Sharp little claws dig in and out of his skin, like a faint pinprick of a needle weaving in and out. It doesn't hurt that much, not really. It's just a new, odd sensation. Kind of annoying, too, now that Clint thinks about it. But it's still not enough to move her.

"Hey, you're not so bad." Clint says, scratching a spot under her chin that she seems to like. "Not so bad at all. I guess you're pretty cute, but don't tell your dad I said that."

The purring stops suddenly as Snowball's head snaps up. She launches herself off of the bed so quickly that it makes Clint seriously reconsider her name: Speedy seems like a much better fit. Clint cranes his neck to watch her go. The tiny kitten disappears down the narrow hallway in a blur of white, gone so fast that it almost feels like she was never there at all.

And it's only then, as he's stretched halfway across the bed, that Clint notices it: the door's ajar and the spot next to him is empty.

Clint's hand flies out to touch the space beside him. _Cold_. He throws a pointless, hurried glance around the room: empty. Untouched, exactly how Pietro left it, and just how Clint remembers it. But still empty. That's new. Clint disentangles his feet from the blankets and climbs out of bed. He stumbles a little as he gets his bearings.

It's probably (definitely) a bit of an overreaction, and Pietro's bound to be here somewhere, since this is still very much his apartment. But, being who he is and how he is, Clint's mind instantly goes to the worse case scenario; bad, something bad.

"What are you doing out of bed?" comes a voice from the doorway. Pietro's smile is accompanied by a frown, but he looks amused. Happy, even. He's clad in the same pair of Adidas tracks from the previous night and not much else.

His bandages have been freshly changed, Clint notices.

He also notices that the swelling around his eye seems to have gone down, if only slightly, but the bruises have darkened. The cuts that aren't hidden away under bandages are still red and raw and angry. His lip isn't as puffy now, even if the cut is more pronounced. Darker, somehow, against his pale lips.

"Stretching. Doing my morning exercises." Clint says, and exhales a low sigh of relief at the sight of Pietro standing in the doorway, with one shoulder propped up against the doorframe casually. "What's it look like I'm doing? Yoga? I'm looking for you. And you, well, you're looking good."

"Liar." Pietro says, smirking. "Such a terrible liar."

"It's not a lie. Looks better than it did yesterday and that's saying something." he argues.

Clint realizes that's probably not the best argument to make right now. Still, Pietro doesn't seem to mind all that much, if at all. Clint takes advantage of this pause (of Pietro being quiet and still, and not fidgety) to rake his eyes over Pietro and take in the extent of the damage. It's still there, written all over his face and his body.

Somehow, it even touches the corners of his eyes. Makes him look sad and tired, when he shouldn't be.

"I-come here, will you?" Clint croaks. Doesn't realize how strained his voice is until he tries to speak again. "Let me see."

Pietro rolls his eyes, apparently exasperated with Clint's nagging. Still, he pushes himself off of the doorframe and moves towards Clint without making any sort of argument. It's so unlike him that it unnerves Clint, if only a little.

The bruises are worse than Clint remembers them being, but that doesn't seem to bother Pietro.

At least, he doesn't let it show if it does bother him. Outwardly, he seems less insecure. There's something more confident about him - it's in his posture. There's a confidence there, in the way that he's still smirking as he approaches Clint. The distance between them grows shorter and shorter with each slow, languid step that Pietro takes towards him.

"What are you really doing out of bed, hmm?" He asks, as he finally comes to a halt in front of Clint. "It's still early. You should be resting."

"Early? It's-I don't even know what time it is. And I was out of bed," Clint begins, somewhat distractedly. It takes twice as long to get the words out. One of his hands curls around the globe of Pietro's right shoulder. "Because of you. I was looking for you. Feeling any better?"

Pietro nods, then gives Clint's torso a slight shove _back_.

It's not hard enough to knock him over, not really. But it surprises Clint enough that he stumbles back, momentarily caught off guard. He smiles as the back of his legs hit the mattress. And, when Pietro shoves him again, harder this time with a hand flat on his sternum, Clint feels his smile grow.

He anticipates the push, could probably even stop himself from falling if he wanted to, but he doesn't. He lands on the bed and exhales a low, breathy laugh.

Sure, his head didn't quite make it onto the pillow, but Clint's still pretty damn comfy. Now that he knows Pietro isn't gone, he's safe and he's _here_ , Clint allows himself to relax. The bed feels comfier, now, as he sinks into it. And then he remembers.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Mm?" Pietro asks, feigning interest.

"Not verbally, anyway. A nod doesn't count." Clint explains. "I'm gonna need words. Actual words."

The mattress dips beside Clint and he's surprised to see Pietro joining him. He doesn't fall onto his back though, not like Clint. Doesn't curl up on his side, or make any sudden move to climb back under the covers. Instead, he sits cross-legged with his back facing Clint.

Pietro inhales sharply, a low hiss of pain. "It was half seven, I think. You were still asleep." he cranes his head to meet Clint's gaze from over his shoulder. "I couldn't wake you. Not when you looked like _that_."

"Like what? Unconscious? It's not my best look." Clint says, then scratches at the stubble growing on his jaw. "I think I need to shave."

"You looked peaceful."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not here for that. To look peaceful. I'm here for you. For this, whatever that means. Changing bandages and making breakfast. Wake me up next time." he says. Less than ten seconds later, he stifles a yawn behind the back of his hand.

Pietro smiles like he's won something. Like he's proved his point, maybe. "Oh?"

"Hey, that was nothing. I've spent most of my life yawning." Clint shifts, so that he's propped up on his elbow, one hand holding his head up. "It's just part of who I am. Part of my personality. But we've talked enough about me. Let's talk about _you_. Feeling any better? Worse? You've dodged that question twice now," he adds. "So don't think I haven't noticed, 'cause I did."

"You talk _so_ much in the morning."

"Three times."

"I, uh-" Pietro trails off, hesitating. "I've slept better, I think. But it was nice to have you there. To know that you were close." he says, a smile on his lips. "Even if you do talk too much in the morning."

From where Clint's propped up on his side, he can see the way that Pietro's arm cradles his ribs. Clint's eyes are glued to the dark bruises blossoming across Pietro's lower back. Somehow, he manages to look away, but by then it's obvious to _both_ of them that Clint was outright staring.

Clint exhales a sigh, fixes on a smile and meets Pietro's gaze once more. "Didn't kick you, did I? Y'know, when I was sleeping. I do that sometimes. I wasn't kidding when I told you that."

"No, I don't think you kicked me." Pietro says, amused. "How did you sleep?"

"Good. _Good_." Clint nods. "I can sleep anywhere. I've slept in my truck at least a dozen times. Slept on the porch, but I woke up with the worst crick in my neck. I-don't even say it, alright? That judgy look says it all. Crick _is_ a word that people use. It's not an old people word either. It's a real word. Anyway, where was I? _Right_. I can't even remember how many shitty couches I slept on. This bed is pretty sweet compared to those."

Pietro shifts, like he's still trying to get comfy. He seems amused, at least, by Clint's ramblings. And even if he isn't, he's polite enough to pretend like he's interested in what Clint's saying. When he winces, he's quick to smooth out any wrinkles in his expression, and it makes Clint wonder just how bad it really is.

"Still hurts, doesn't it?"

"I've had much worse." Pietro says, like that's supposed to somehow make it _much_ better.

Clint's eyes are drawn to the thin, almost silver, scar on Pietro's back. He remembers how it felt to have that puckered skin beneath his hand, to trail the length of it with his fingertips, brushing over the very edge. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure you have." he says, and doesn't really want to think about it beyond that.

Doesn't want to imagine that, somehow, Pietro's had worse than this: a beating that left him bruised, bloodied, and possibly even scarred. Yeah, Clint's not sure he wants to picture how this could _possibly_ be worse. He bites his tongue and waits for Pietro's breathing to even out before he speaks again, tentatively broaching the subject.

"Tell me where it hurts." he says gently.

Pietro scrunches his face up, then joins Clint. He's a little more careful about the way he falls back onto the bed: it's less of a fall and more of a really slow, careful collapse. Pietro eases himself down onto the mattress, with his eyes fixed on some far off spot on the ceiling.

"Here." Pietro says, dulled. It takes Clint a moment to realize that he's got one hand pressed over his chest, just above his heart. Then, he moves his hand and touches his ribs lightly. "And there. _Everywhere_."

This close, Clint can see the shaky rise and fall of Pietro's chest; the light dusting of freckles on his shoulders; the pale bruises across his skin, shades of blue and green, so faint that they're barely there at all. Clint ducks his head and kisses the closest patch of skin that his lips can reach:

Pietro's shoulder.

Then, a spot on his collarbone, just below a dark freckle.

Clint closes his eyes and inhales. He stays where he is, still on his side, face buried into Pietro's collarbone. It doesn't occur to him to move. Doesn't occur to him that maybe, this isn't comfortable for Pietro. As if somehow sensing Clint's uncertainty, Pietro turns his head and presses his lips to Clint's temple, lingering a moment.

When he speaks, Clint doesn't just hear it, he _feels_ it.

The gentle vibrations pass from Pietro's chest and reverberate straight through Clint, like a low rumble of thunder before a storm. Clint's still tucked close against Pietro's side, listening to the sound of his breaths coming, going, _coming_. He likes this. Likes the soft rise and fall of Pietro's bare chest. Likes being close enough to hear when he breathes and sighs, when he stills.

"I was ten."

It doesn't click straight away that he's talking about his childhood, about the scar winding across his back and his dead parents. Clint keeps quiet and still, when it finally slots into place. He pulls back a little to watch Pietro; his eyes are fixed back on that invisible spot on the ceiling that Clint can't seem to find.

Maybe that's fine. Maybe it's a thought that belongs to Pietro and nobody else, not even Clint.

"We were supposed to go out. It was for her, my mother. A nice dinner. But I," he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his pale lips. "I said I felt sick. That I wanted to stay home, because I was mad with her. I don't even remember why."

"You don't have to tell me this. Any of it." Clint says gently. "You know that, right?" he asks, tracing patterns into the bared skin of Pietro's collarbone.

Pietro nods solemnly. "I know."

A long stretch of silence ensues - the mournful kind. Clint draws patterns on Pietro's skin while the younger man stares up at the ceiling with that same blank expression on his face. It makes Clint wonder if this is one of those stories that doesn't need to be told. And if that's what Pietro wants, then Clint can accept that.

"We stayed home because of me." Pietro's voice is low, secretive. His words meant only for Clint's ears. "I don't even remember why I was so mad with her. I should be able to remember _why_ , but I can't. I don't. So we stayed home."

Something heavy settles in Clint's chest at the look on Pietro's face: grim, broken, desperate. All of that and more.

"And then," Pietro continues, nearly a whisper. "I hear it. This noise. It was so loud. Then, she starts screaming. I go to the window and I see it. Across the road, the entire house was-it was _gone_. Nothing left but rubble and smoke. And then I see her. A girl in the rubble, just sitting in the ruins. Holding onto her little brother. I knew her. I played with them."

Clint's eyes widen. His throat feels all tight and constricted. He doesn't know what to say, at first. At all. Not when he knows where Pietro's going with this. Clint's never been great at dealing with his own grief. Actually, he sucks at it. But when it comes to the few people that he actually gives a shit about, he tries _not_ to, well, suck at it. He tries to make an effort.

Even if it doesn't change it or fix it, even if he can't make it better, he still has to try. It's the least he can do.

"The first shell blows a hole in their bedroom." Pietro's eyes slip shut. "Gone, just like that. Everything was gone, except for Wanda. I reach for her just as the second shell hits. It brings down some of the roof. A piece of it hits me and I'm trapped. I can't go to her. She's under the bed and I can't-I _can't move_. It's on my back. The shell is right in front of us, but it doesn't go off."

Clint swallows, hard. He wants to close his eyes, maybe. So he doesn't have to see that look of hurt on Pietro's face. But he's not that selfish, and this isn't about him, it isn't. He has to be strong, or not. Has to be _there,_ or gone, or whatever Pietro needs him to be.

"It just sits there." he says, barely managing to get the words out. And he sounds angry, now. His voice trembles as he continues, but not with grief or loss, but _anger_. Clint isn't sure if he's mad with himself, or those actually responsible. "Two days, it sits there. Two days, I wait to die. I _want_ to die."

"Jesus." Clint says, beneath his breath.

Not quietly enough for Pietro to miss it though. Like this, _this_ close, there's not much that goes unnoticed between them - like the hitch in Pietro's breathing, the hard set to Clint's jaw, the way that Pietro's anger shakes and grows into something else, something sad and haunted (it's unfair for someone so young to be so burdened, Clint thinks).

"I don't know what to say." Clint says, and his hands have stilled; his fingers no longer trace patterns across Pietro's fair skin. "I don't. God, I wish I could just-I wanna make it better. All of it. The worst part is I know I can't. That it doesn't matter what I say. I can't."

And it sounds weak, even to Clint's ears.

He knows that it's not enough. Words don't fix situations like this. Anything that he says, or does, is going to be inadequate. It always is. Clint shifts and moves so that he's sitting upright, looking down at Pietro's scrunched up face. He keeps playing the words over and over again in his head: _I don't. I can't. I can't._

It's pathetic. Selfish, even.

There's a strange feeing in Clint's chest. Tight and strained. Grief, maybe. A shared sorrow, even though it's different, even though Clint's story isn't anything like that.

Pietro opens his eyes, slowly. They're-uncertain. Vulnerable and cloudy, and brimming with tears. Clint frames the younger man's face in his hands; carefully, mindful of his injuries.

"Nobody deserves that." he says, then ducks his head and presses his lips to Pietro's forehead, lingering. He pulls back, just enough to look, to make sure he hasn't done any harm when he only wants to do good, and that's when one of Pietro's hands winds in his hair, keeping him close. "I can't imagine what that was like."

"Yes, you can." he says. "You lost your parents."

"That was," Clint stops. Half a dozen different words come to mind, but there's only one that he keeps coming back to: different. "That wasn't like-it was different."

 _A lifetime ago._

"Still." Pietro says. It's all that needs to be said, really. _Still_. The loss is the same, even if the story isn't. "I think you know what it's like. It doesn't go away, not even now. I was ten years old and now I'm much older, but it's still there. I think you know how this feels, which is why I told you." then, he quietly adds," Only you."

Gently, Clint brushes the hair back off of Pietro's face, out of his eyes. Then, he ghosts his thumb over a sharp cheekbone; one of those light, barely there at all touches.

"You never told anyone else?"

Pietro hesitates. "Only you."

 _Why me?_ he wants to ask, but doesn't. Clint knows why. At least, he thinks he might: love, maybe. The words come back to him. And he could say them now, of course. But he won't. Not yet, and certainly not now, like this.

Clint dips his head and kisses the crease in between Pietro's dark eyebrows. "I don't know what to say."

It's the truth, at least. Even if he has nothing else to offer, at least there's this. Pietro seems touched by it. There's a faint curve at the corner of his mouth, almost like a smile. He nods, still too tired. He has the face of someone who has already seen _so_ much.

"I'm sorry." Clint adds uselessly.

"I know."

"Mine died in a car accident." it kind of just slips out. Clint pulls back a fraction, surprised by his actions. "Yeah. A drunken driver hit 'em head on. And you're right, y'know. IT doesn't go away. I was a kid, younger than you are now, but not my much. It's still... _there_."

"What did you do?" Pietro asks quietly, his blue eyes kind yet _intense_ , and locked on Clint.

"I ran away to the circus." he says. "At first, we were just running. Didn't know where we were going, or _why_. But now, I know. We ran because we were scared of being split up."

"There was nowhere else for you to go?"

Clint shakes his head, then smacks his lips together. "Nope." he says. "Barney was all I had. There was a distant aunt, somewhere, but she was on my dad's side. His sister. So if she was anything like him, then we'd be better off in the circus. We'd be better off anywhere. All that mattered was we were together."

And this, this isn't something that Clint really talks about. Sure, he's made a couple of remarks, here and there. Nothing solid. The only person that really knows is Natasha, and that's just because she knows _everything_. Now, Pietro knows, though he probably already had his suspicions.

"He wasn't kind to you," Pietro says stiffly, like he can't even swallow the thought.

Clint rolls over onto his back, just to avoid that intense stare (and the pity swirling in Pietro's piercing blue eyes).

"Not to me or Barney, or mom. Or anyone, probably." Clint says, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "God, he was mean. I don't know how mom ended up with him. He was a sack of shit and she-she was sweet as pie. I think you would've liked her."

"What was she like?"

"Hell of a woman." Clint murmurs. He feels a smile tug at his lips. Then, he thinks of bruises and broken bones, and how he wished and wished that his father would leave them, but he didn't want his mother to be gone, too. "Mind if we talk about something else? Anything else." _or nothing at all._

Pietro finds Clint's hand and loops their fingers together. He squeezes, once. Doesn't say a word, and maybe he doesn't need to. Clint feels a strange sort of calm wash over him. He wonders, idly, if Pietro feels it as well. They stay like that for a long time. Shoulder-to-shoulder, breaths coming in slow, steady inhales and exhales. It's a strange, fragile sort of harmony.

It doesn't last though.

The sound of sirens blaring in the distance disrupts the silence and, once unsettled, Clint finds that he can't go back. He sits up slowly. Somehow, he still feels sleepy. Or maybe lazy, and coffee-deprived. His hair is messy, his clothes baggy and warm, and definitely not his, and it's not really what he expected, _any of it_ , but it's still nice.

"Hungry?" Clint asks. "I'll fix you something to eat."

"I think we have Cheerios."

"That'll work."

"You know," Pietro begins, a sly smile on his lips. "This isn't what I had planned for the first time you were here. In my room. In my bed. This is _very_ different from what I thought might happen."

Clint laughs and it sounds so real, so genuine, that it almost startles him. "That's real cute, kid."

"Is it?" Pietro asks, sitting up. There's a brief look of discomfort on his face, but that's quickly replaced by a smile. "I wonder," he pauses, something devious in the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Is it cute enough to convince you to stay here, in bed? With _me_?

"Not today, speedy."

* * *

Breakfast consists of a bowl of Cap'n Crunch (there was only enough Cheerios for one, unfortunately, and Pietro has a killer set of puppy dog eyes on him when he needs to) and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, courtesy of Wanda.

They seem a little more at ease with each other. There's less tension, anyway, and even when they bicker, it's playful and light. There are no sharp, heated words. It's over small and meaningless things, the kind of fights that only siblings that close can have. Clint's used to it. Or, he was. He gets all nostalgic over his bowl of Cap'n Crunch.

Pietro shoots him a strange look, but doesn't say anything and Clint's kind of grateful for it.

He finds that he's not as uncomfortable here as he imagined he might be. It's almost like he _fits_ , like he was always meant to slot right in here, wedged in at a tiny table in a tiny apartment, quite literally stuck in the middle between Wanda and Pietro as they argue over who gets the last slice of banana bread. Pietro wins, but only because he's a filthy, dirty cheat.

 _That_ doesn't surprise Clint in the least.

Wanda wrinkles her nose as Pietro snatches up the piece of bread and licks both sides of it. Clint can't help but laugh, because as cute as Pietro is, he's always been a bit of an asshole. Clint likes him _just_ how he is. Assholey-ness and all. Pietro smiles victoriously and it turns out that Wanda can't stay mad at him for long either, not with that toothy grin.

After, after Clint helps Wanda with the dishes (and Pietro stands around, does nothing, hits Clint's ass with a dishrag more times than Clint can count), after everyone's finished up in the bathroom and Clint's given a spare toothbrush and a fresh change of clothes, they play Mario Kart. This is when Clint learns something new about Pietro Maximoff: he is a _very_ sore loser.

He swears-something sharp, and in Sokovian, that he promises he'll teach Clint later, probably when he's less annoyed-and he even goes so far as to throw his controller down the opposite end of the couch. Wanda's definitely not getting involved, since she's apparently had enough of video games with Pietro to last a lifetime. She sips on some sort of herbal tea and watches them from her spot on the floor; she's curled up on a neon blue beanbag that actually looks pretty comfy. Clint's always liked beanbags.

"Don't go easy on me, old man." Pietro says, retrieving his controller. "I'll know if you do."

Apparently, Clint spends the better part of an hour going easy on Pietro, which isn't even _true_. It's not that Clint sucks at Mario Kart, or that he's trying to throw the game, but it's just been awhile since he played. Once he gets the hang of it, though, he pretty much destroys Pietro.

It makes Wanda smile, at least, even if her brother cuts a more sulky figure as he throws himself down onto the couch. Clint finds himself smiling, more than he has in a _really_ long time.

He gets this: to see Pietro happy and excited, to see him thrilled about beating Clint, and disappointed when he doesn't. These are sides to Pietro that Clint hasn't seen before. Pietro, in his baggy sweats, with damp hair and dark bruises on his face. Pietro, at ease in the comfort of his own home, feet tucked up underneath him on the couch.

This, _this_ is something that Clint cherishes. This and this and this. A glimpse of Pietro's life. To be able to see him wound up, then undone. All of it. To see his face in the morning over a cup of steaming coffee, and to know what his hair looks like right after a shower.

It feels like a privilege, or a gift, or both.

Clint commits it all to memory: Pietro, sitting across from him at breakfast, chewing happily on his cereal. Pietro, scrunching his nose up as he tears a piece of toast apart with his teeth. Pietro's feet brushing against Clint's foot under the kitchen table. Then, the playful glint in his eye as he actually kicks Clint's ankle and blames Wanda.

He wants to remember all of it. It feels like home. Comforting, warm, familiar. _Home._ A sense of belonging. The sound of Pietro's voice in the darkness, low and sleepy and right by Clint's ear as he says _noć, ljubavi_ and Clint drifts off to sleep with those words fresh in his mind and Pietro's name fresh on his lips.

 _Home._

Clint realizes with a pang that he doesn't want to go back to his, not if that means leaving _this_ , leaving Pietro's sleepy smile and his warm hands, and the kind look in Wanda's eyes, behind. Clint doesn't want to leave any of it behind.

A hand curls around Clint's bare ankle suddenly and _tugs_ , making Clint lose his balance on the couch. He squawks in indignation as he ends up half off the couch and half on the floor. Pietro towers over him, looking _very_ pleased with himself. Clint realizes that he's still clutching onto the controller, but not actually paying any actual attention to the game; he zoned out, probably for a good thirty seconds, maybe even more.

Maybe that explains the look of mild annoyance on Pietro's face. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" Clint asks. "Stop kicking your ass at Mario Kart? I'm basically wiping the floor with you, kid. I really thought you were better than that. I guess you talk a pretty big game, but when it comes down to it." he says, and makes a vague gesture with his hands.

"Aren't you going to finish that sentence?"

"What?"

"But when it comes down to it," Pietro trails off. He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Was there more to that?"

"Well, yeah. You suck." Clint nods. "When it comes down to actually playing the game, you suck. Is that clear enough? Or should I be a little more specific? I kicked your _ass_. I-"

Pietro waves him off. "I don't care."

"Oh, _please_." Clint laughs. "You so care."

"Maybe," Pietro says, shrugging weakly. "Or maybe I just let you win. You looked so sad, old man. So _sad_. I couldn't let you sit there, with a face like that. I wouldn't be a very good boyfriend if I did."

"There's nothing wrong with my face. If anything, there's something wrong with _your_ face. Oh, yeah. I went there. Y'know, my mom used to say if you keep making a face and the wind changes, it'll get stuck like that." Clint says, then nods in Pietro's direction. "You sure that's how you want to be remembered?"

Pietro kicks at Clint's upper thigh playfully. "The wind can change, it doesn't matter. I always look good."

 _Asshole_ , Clint thinks. But it's true. Of course it's true. Pietro's gorgeous - all long, sinewy limbs, and shaggy white hair. He has _freckles_ and pretty blue eyes, and a smile that's left Clint breathless more than once. Clint's eyes catch on the bracelet around Pietro's wrist and that's when he realizes his own is missing.

He touches his wrist stupidly, half expecting it to still be there. It's probably in with his dirty clothes, after that first shower that Wanda pretty much forced him into (to be fair, he _was_ covered in blotchy spots of paint).

There's another sharp, sudden tug on Clint's ankle, pulling him completely off of the couch and onto the carpet. "Ouch. Mind the goods." Clint mutters, as his head hits the floor with a dulled _thunk_. "What _is_ this? What's-why am I on the floor?" he asks, even though he probably should be asking: _why are smiling at me like you know something I don't?_

"I want to build a fort."

"Oh. Aren't you a little old for that?"

"No."

"Aren't I a little old for that?" Clint asks, but Pietro's already collecting pillows off of the couch and stacking them up. His smile is beautiful, and infectious. Clint finds that he can't deny him this. So if he wants a pillow fort, then he's getting one. " _Fine_. But I get to pick what we watch. That's my only condition."

"We'll see, old man." Pietro says, all sing-songy and _cute_.

"Aw, come on. I'm trying to be reasonable. Y'know, you're lucky that I love you, 'cause I don't usually compromise this much. Actually, that's a lie. I compromise all the time. I mean, why else would I watch Frozen with you? You bat your eyelashes and I watch whatever you want. Not this time, bud. I get it, Elsa's your idol. She's got the white hair and the tiara, but I'm not sitting through that again. I refuse to."

Pietro's face is all weird. He's looking at Clint like he's grown a third head. Clint almost checks, _almost_. He's still flat on his back, smirking up at the younger man from the floor.

"You-what?"

"I'm," Clint flounders. "I'm trying to be reasonable? I'm good at compromising? I'm not watching frozen?"

Pietro shakes his head profusely. There's a flush to his cheeks, just faint, barely there. A tinge of pink that Clint finds curious. "No. No, not _that._ "

"Was it the Elsa thing?" he asks. "Because I know you've got a tiara around here somewhere."

"You said you loved me."

Clint's smile remains intact, even if it feels like his heart is pounding against his ribcage. "What? No, I didn't. I said, "you're lucky you're cute", not the _other_ thing. Not the love thing. I didn't say that I loved you." he says, because he didn't, he hasn't - not yet, and not like this.

Except maybe he did.

Wanda's spoon clanks loudly in her teacup as she rises from the beanbag swiftly and disappears into the kitchen. A part of Clint almost wishes he could join her, because he might've just accidentally dropped the L bomb in the middle of a casual conversation about pillow forts and Frozen.


	28. Chapter 28

Clint | **Wanda**

* * *

MON 8 JUNE

 _Love_. The word hangs heavily in the air, lingering between them. Clint's up and on his feet, waving one hand around vaguely, while the other is currently jammed in his mouth as he chews on the edge of a blunt nail.

It's not like he doesn't mean it, because he does.

He means it so much that it feels like his chest is going to explode from the pressure of it. For months, Clint's had a lot of trouble distinguishing truth from lie: _Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry about it. No, it doesn't hurt that Laura and I split up. My shoulder's good. Business is going great. Stark didn't break the heart that nobody knows I have. You're just a kid that I don't even like._

This, though, feels like a truth. Clint's willing to run with it.

Or, at least he _was_ willing to run with it. That is until he notices the strange look on Pietro's face. Something that makes Clint's insides feel all uneasy and jittery, and not in a good way. He's not sure if the heart hammering away in his chest, thumping incessantly against his ribcage, could handle the rejection.

"You love me." Pietro says, and he's still staring at Clint like he's an alien, or like a head has sprouted out of his shoulder.

And, truth be told, Clint's not sure which option he would prefer, but he's leaning towards the alien thing - that, or the extra head protruding out of his shoulder, instead of knowing that Pietro's looking at him like that, because of love.

Love. Stupid, ill-timed, all-consuming.

"What, like it's a big deal? It's not." Clint says, too fast.

He's surprised that Pietro even manages to make sense of the words, but he does, and it doesn't seem to be what he was hoping for. And it's not really how Clint wanted it to go either, but it is what it is: something else that Clint can add to the list of things he _really_ screwed up.

"Not that big of a deal." Pietro deadpans.

"It doesn't have to be."

Bad answer. _Wrong_ answer. Apparently, trying to make it into less of a big deal only makes Pietro get all flustered, and frowny. His lips draw into a thin, pale line, and there's seriously way too much frowning going on. He looks so fucking hurt, like he's actually stung by Clint's attempts at downplaying the whole ordeal, and Clint wants to punch himself in the face just to wipe that look off of Pietro's.

Maybe it'll make them both feel a little better.

Pietro shifts on his feet, like he's unsure of himself (or of Clint, maybe). "What does that mean?" he asks.

It's a mess. Clint's good at making those. He wishes that he knew what it meant, what any of it meant. Instead, he's just one big, nervous, rambling mess. All he wants to do is fix it, maybe rewind time and erase all of it from Pietro's memory.

"Listen, I didn't even realize I said the L word." Clint weakly explains. "This wasn't something I planned, if that makes it any better. We can go back to how it was before. Just pretend that it didn't happen. That includes you, Wanda, I know you're listening in from the kitchen."

By this point, Pietro's shut down, with his walls up high.

Zoned out, and far away from Clint and his stupid, stupid rambling. He's got his arms crossed over his chest and he's-yep, he's definitely pouting, but not in a cutesy and only a _little_ annoyed way. He seems stunned, and that doesn't fade at all, when he next speaks. It couldn't come soon enough, really, and Clint's almost relieved to hear the sound of his voice, even in such weird circumstances.

"I-" Pietro opens his mouth, closes it. He shakes his head slowly, like he's turning a decision over and over, and he can't make up his mind. "But you did say it. That you love me. You said it."

Clint nods, then reaches out to pat Pietro's shoulder, but aborts the movement halfway there, because seriously, a clap on the shoulder is the worst thing he could do right now. Dropping his hand back down to his side awkwardly, Clint glances away, looks down at the socks on his feet, the carpeted floor, the pieces of a pillow fort scattered all around them.

He's hesitant about meeting Pietro's gaze again. When he does, it's just a whole lot of nothing. A blankness, that's somehow worse than that scrunched up, pained look from before.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."

So, that was probably the worst thing Clint could do right now, judging by Pietro's, well, everything. Face, posture, body language. He blinks, a lot, like he's experiencing the same type of malfunction that Clint's mouth is apparently suffering from.

Less than thirty seconds later, Wanda breezes through the room with a handbag draped over her arm and a set of shiny, colorful keys in her hand. "I'm going to the store."

"I think I will join you." Pietro says and he's halfway out the door before Clint even registers that he's leaving.

"But you don't have any shoes on." is all Clint manages to get out, and is rewarded by Pietro flipping him the bird. It isn't like he doesn't deserve it, because he does. _Such a fucking mess_ , Clint thinks, as Pietro ducks back inside to pull on the pair of old boots that belong to Clint.

He doesn't say that though.

He doesn't say a damn thing.

Pietro's gone, out the door, down the stairs, gone. Wanda lingers in the hallway, returning inside only to smack Clint quite literally upside the head. He deserves it. Once she's gone, Clint's left standing in an apartment that isn't his, in clothes that don't belong to him (they're oversized, warm, and smell faintly of Pietro) and he's alone.

Alone, just like he wanted to be for so long, until he didn't, until Pietro came along with his bright smiles and his shit taste in movies, and he swept into Clint's life like a storm, throwing everything else into complete and utter chaos.

Maybe he'll finally get his wish. He wanted to be alone for so long that he forgot how good it felt to not be. Thing is, he's never been great with love. He's only ever wanted to stay with the ones that would crush him and, eventually, inevitably, break his heart (re: Tony Stark).

Clint cards a hand through his hair and shakes his head. This is exactly why he shouldn't be allowed to speak, ever, because he's pretty much an expert at putting his foot in his mouth. He excels at it, actually.

And then there's Pietro, with his heart on his sleeve and his big blue eyes, and Clint probably doesn't deserve him. Actually, he knows he doesn't. Clint drops down onto the edge of the couch and puts his face into his hands.

He sits there for a good twenty minutes, at least, before he realizes that the Maximoff siblings aren't coming back anytime soon, and he can't really blame them. He'd stay away, too, if he could. Clint's itching for a cigarette, of all things, and rifles through a couple drawers and cabinets in the kitchen before finding a crumpled packet, hidden away in one of the lower drawers, along with a brass Zippo lighter. He swipes his phone up off of the kitchen table, steps into a pair of shoes that clearly belong to Pietro-judging by size, and also a little by style, because they're huge, way too big for Wanda's dainty feet. They're also black and white Adidas high tops, which Pietro's talked and _talked_ about to Clint for hours-and then he heads up to the roof.

Wanda mentioned it earlier that morning at breakfast, over a bowl of soggy cereal; something about the view, the sunset, and how lovely the sky looks with all its shades of pink and orange, right before night creeps on over.

Right now, though, in the smack bang middle of the day, it isn't much to look at: clear blue skies and a bright sun, sure. Two hideous beach lounge chairs that are multi-colored, ugly, and not even a little inviting, along with a tacky pink flamingo and a garden gnome. There are some very dead plants scattered across the rooftop, all brown and shrivelled. Clint reaches out to pluck a leaf off of a nearby plant and closes his fingers around it, but it crumbles to dust in his hand. He pulls a face and wipes his palm off on his sweatpant bottoms.

Except they're not his, not really.

Clint toys with the hem of his V-neck shirt, for a moment. Another one of Pietro's belongings. It's rolled up to the elbows on Clint, and not because it's too big like Pietro had teased him about earlier, but just because. Then, without thinking, Clint turns and ducks his head towards his shoulder, inhaling the lingering scent: minty, some sort of washing detergent, and Pietro's cologne.

"Great work." Clint mutters, dropping down onto one of the lounge chairs. "You really screwed this one up."

He's surprised to find that it's actually pretty comfy, despite looking uncomfortable and kind of on the crappy side. It's the less ugly chair, at least; a mix of orange, yellow and white stripes. Clint reclines in the beach chair, crosses his legs over at the ankles, and switches his phone on. He plucks a cigarette out of the faded packet and holds it between his lips, unlit.

 _Camel._

Not really Clint's favorite brand, but, when he's the kind of guy that stress smokes after accidentally blurting out the L word during a conversation about pillow forts and Frozen, with his boyfriend that shares an uncanny resemblance with one of the main characters from a movie that Clint's only watched once and never again, he can't really complain. Well, he can, but he won't.

A text comes through from Wanda, buzzing against Clint's thigh. He keeps the smoke poised between his lips, dangling, as he reads the message and types up a swift reply. And then another, because any remaining self-control he possessed has gone out the window today, apparently, and anything is possible.

 **[12:49PM]:**

 **We shouldn't be long. Make yourself at home.**

[12:53PM]:

Tried that already and it didn't go so well.

[12:57PM]:

Look, I know I screwed up. No one's surprised. I should've just stopped talking and now I don't know what to do about it. Everything else is kind of a blur. Pietro left and then you hit me and I don't know what to do next. Will you be gone long? Don't let him overdo it. You know what he's like.

 **[12:59PM]:**

 **Yes, I know what Pietro is like. I also know that this isn't a conversation you should be having with me, Clint. Whatever happened, it's between the two of you and no one else.**

[1:03PM]:

I get it. I'll leave you out of it.

 **[1:06PM]:**

 **You should. But it's a little late for that, isn't it?**

Clint's eyes slip shut. He finds himself nodding along in agreement, because yeah, it's definitely a little late for that. It's way too late for regret, and wanting to redo a moment that was supposed to be something warm and special, not this, whatever _this_ is. He cracks an eye open and peers down at his phone when it vibrates again. Clint swipes open the lockscreen and reads the entirety of Wanda's message, not just the preview.

 **[1:11PM]:**

 **You were wrong when you said that love isn't a big deal. It is. My brother's only ever loved three people in his entire life - me and our parents. That's it. I think he wanted this moment to be a little different than what it was. That doesn't make it a bad moment though.**

[1:13PM]:

His face. The second I said it, he got this look. I just had to take it back so he'd stop looking at me like that.

 **[1:16PM]:**

 **Like what?**

[1:18PM]:

.. **..**

[1:20PM]:

Like maybe he felt the same. Or didn't, and he never will. It just scared me, alright?

[1:26PM]:

Don't tell him I said that.

 **[1:30PM]:**

 **I won't.**

 **[1:34PM]:**

 **If you're still there when we come back, then you can help me with dinner, because Pietro never does We're having risotto.**

 **[1:35PM]:**

 **I'd like it if you were there, but the decision is yours to make. X**

 _I'm not a runner_ , Clint types up, but it's a lie. He didn't run away from Laura, sure, but he might as well have. It's not like he made that much of an effort towards the end. Sometimes, every so often when Clint's had a little too much to drink and is dancing on this side of nostalgia, he wonders if it would've been kinder to leave, to avoid all of the mess that came shortly after.

Unsure of what to say, or how to say it, Clint switches his phone to silent and sets it down on the ground, sliding it underneath the lounge chair. Then, he flicks open the lid of the Zippo lighter with his thumb and strikes down on the wheel three times before the flame catches.

Once the cigarette is lit, Clint knocks the lid of the lighter back down and tucks it into the half-empty Camel carton.

The sun beats down on the rooftop, harsh and nearly blinding. Clint blinks, hard, but still sees spots in his vision as he glances away. He drinks up the warm rays, letting it soak into his already sun-kissed skin, and draws back on the smoke pinched between forefinger and thumb; lazy, unhurried. Pietro's shoes are more than a size too big, and hang off of Clint's feet loosely.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, then tips his head back, reclining further.

After he's finished with his cigarette, after he stubs it out on the concrete until the specks of amber fade away to nothing, and there's only a thin trail of smoke left, wafting up into the sky, Clint's eyes slide shut and he dozes off. Not for long, though, but it's good while it lasts. His dreams are fuzzy, yet sweet, somehow. Pietro's there, smiling at Clint from across a bustling crowd at a neon-colored carnival, across the kitchen table, a crowded room full of faces that Clint doesn't recognize, or care for. It doesn't last. Clint's brought back into the present by something nudging at his ankle.

Clint frowns, cracking open an eye, then the other.

The cigarette packet falls from Clint's lap and onto the floor as he sits up, practically jumping out of his skin. Pietro's eyes flick down to the shiny shoes on Clint's feet (a little scuffed, sure, but pretty much perfect apart from that) before travelling back up to his face. Clint's legs already feel unsteady, so he doesn't even try to stand up.

"I thought you were gone. That you went home." Pietro admits, arms folded across his chest. He's standing right in front of the sun, blocking it from beating down on Clint. "But here you are, sunbaking on my rooftop. Should I fetch the sunblock?"

He moves, then, a little to the left, and Clint has to lift a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the light. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, hanging a _lot_ lower than it was before, it's later. That's all Clint's got. _Later_. Possibly hours, and probably not minutes.

"That's not what I'm doing." Clint argues. "And since when is this your rooftop? You own the building, do you? I'm not sunbaking."

Pietro considers that, humming quietly. "Well, that's what it looks like." he says, shifting so he's blocking the sun again, keeping the harsh rays out of Clint's eyes and off of his face. He tilts his head to the side "Were you smoking?"

"Bad habit."

"Mm."

It's painfully anticlimactic. Clint's heart is still thumping away in his chest cavity, and he wants nothing more than to reach out and tangle his fingers with Pietro's own, to kiss that spot below his collarbone, to brush the strands of silver out of his eyes. Instead, he looks down at his hands, as if he's inspecting his skin for flecks of paint, searching for something that isn't there.

Above him, Pietro makes a point of clearing his throat, drawing Clint's gaze upwards.

"We're gonna talk about it now, aren't we." Clint murmurs. "Alright. If we're really doing this, I might as well start. I'm not taking it back. Sure, I didn't even realize I said it, but I still meant it. I do. Yeah, it'd just about kill me if you didn't feel the same, but something tells me you do. Or did, before I screwed it all up. To be fair, you had this look, like you didn't-"

"You read minds, do you?" Pietro interrupts, amused. The corner of his mouth is pulled up at the corners, like he's fighting a smile. "How do you know what I'm feeling, or what I'm thinking? You don't. Not unless I tell you."

"Alright, so I'm no telepath, but it seemed obvious."

Clint moves to stand up at the exact moment that Pietro takes a step forward, sitting precariously on the edge of the lounge chair. One of his hands brushes over the exposed skin of Clint's ankle, just above the high tops that are shiny and pristine, and definitely not Clint's. Too big, too unscathed, and not really Clint's style. He usually goes for paint-splattered combat boots. Pulling himself away from his inner musings about shoes, Clint glances up at Pietro, who looks deep in thought.

Not lost, just _deep_ in thought. Quiet reflection, apparently, that's not meant for Clint's ears. Still, he doesn't disturb the silence with some smartass comment, or another ill-timed confession, even if he might want to. He sits and waits, quiet, patient. A little on edge, hoping that Pietro will come back to him.

"Did you," Pietro's voice breaks a little. He tries again. "Did you mean it? Yesterday, before I left for the store, before any of this happened, you said that you could love me, but you weren't there yet. I want to know what changed. Will you tell me? And don't joke about it. Just tell me what changed."

"I did."

Pietro's face says it all, really. "In such a short time?"

"What, so you've never had a realization hit you out of nowhere?" Clint asks, sinking back in the chair. "It was sudden, like a smack in the face. It felt a little like that, I guess. When I realized." _Like all the air was sucked out of my lungs,_ he almost adds.

"Mm. You still took it back."

"Because I thought that's what you wanted."

The wind picks up a little, then, blowing Pietro's hair around wildly, streaking the long strands across his face. Clint sits up, moves so that he's closer to Pietro and his narrowed blue eyes. A hand curls around Clint's ankle. Deft, slightly calloused, fingers slide up the back of his calve, up, up, to curl loosely around his knee.

"Why don't you ask me, hm?" Pietro says. "Ask me what I want, old man, instead of guessing. That only leads to this. To misunderstandings. Just ask."

Clint nods, a little breathless, maybe. He's struck with the sudden urge to pull Pietro into his arms and hold him close against his chest. "I should probably do that, yeah." he pauses, hesitating. "I'm just-I'm no good at this. Any of it. When I've got something good, I ruin it. And I always let the good one go. And you, well, I think I fell too hard and way too fast. That's not usually how it works with me. Not really."

"Oh? Then how _does_ it work?"

"I haven't had many lasting relationships."

"That makes two of us."

"But you're young," Clint begins, and, when Pietro throws him a mildly annoyed look, he swiftly adds: "Younger. Come on, quit looking at me like that. You _are_ younger than me, so you have plenty of time for, y'know, adult relationships."

"And that's what this is? An adult relationship?" Pietro tilts his head to the side, curious gaze sweeping over Clint and his slightly ruffled attire. "You know, you don't look _that_ much older."

Clint's smile comes unbidden. "You really hate that I'm older than you, don't you? Yeah, that's right. Wanda told me everything. She told me all about how you brag about being the older twin, even if it's only by a couple minutes. This, though, this gap between us, is more than a couple minutes. We're talking years, Quicksilver. Not minutes, but a whole decade."

Pale wisps of hair spill across Pietro's face and into his eyes, like uneven, badly cut bangs. "Would you still be saying this if we had met a decade earlier?"

"Babe," Clint says gently. "If we'd met ten years ago, this would be a _very_ different conversation. Actually, I don't think we'd know each other at all. You'd be fifteen and I'd be the age you are now, so no, I wouldn't be saying any of this. We wouldn't know each other. I don't wish for that - that we met a decade ago, because none of this could've happened. I'd just like a couple extra years. That's all. Three, maybe four. I was different back then. Might've been easier."

"I like you how you are now."

"So you _do_ like me? I'm glad we got that cleared up." Clint smirks. "You had me worried, kid. Worried that my charms had worn off."

A hand shoves Clint back, down onto the lounge chair. Pietro follows shortly after, crawling right up into Clint's lap. The angle is a little awkward, since Pietro's still injured and Clint's hyperaware of that as the fair-haired man fists a hand in the front of his shirt and pulls him up, closer, as if it's somehow possible to have less distance between them when they're already as close as physically possible on the crappy orange and white _and_ -

Clint forgets all about the stupid chair when Pietro ducks his head and captures Clint's mouth in a heated, almost bruising, kiss.

Now, _that_ leaves him breathless. When he pulls back, there's a faint, subtle pink color to Pietro's cheeks, and a smile playing on his lips. Clint slides a hand around to the base of his neck, fingertips grazing over the fine hairs there. It makes Pietro's skin erupt in goosebumps. Or maybe that's because of the slightly chilly breeze that washes over them and sends strands of his hair astray again.

"What do you want?" Clint asks, before he realizes the words have even slipped out of his mouth. "You told me to ask, so I am. Whatever it is, I'll do it. Just say the word."

There's something devious underneath Pietro's smile, lingering a moment, before he shakes his head and puts on a _very_ serious face. So serious, in fact, that Clint's own smile falls away, out of fear that maybe he finally pushed it too far and screwed up too much with the whole L word thing.

"I want to know why you said it wasn't a big deal." Pietro nods, as if reassuring himself that _yes, this is what I want_. A glint still remains in his eyes, though, that says, _for now_. He's fickle by nature, Clint's come to learn, but he's not really one to talk.

"Because I thought that's what you wanted."

"Why would you think that?"

Clint chews on the inside of his mouth. He keeps a hand planted firmly on the back of Pietro's neck, when he answers. "It's stupid, now that I think about it." he says, hesitating. "You didn't even see the messages."

"Messages about what?"

"About love."

"What about it?" he pushes.

"See, I-well, I said that I could love you. That I could feel that way, someday, and I wasn't there yet. You remember that, right? When you stopped answering, before I knew why," he pauses. "I started thinking that maybe it had something to do with me not saying it. That I loved you. And _that_ was why you weren't texting back."

"You thought I was upset with you."

Clint nods belatedly in agreement, because that's _exactly_ what he thought at the time, until he learnt that the reason behind Pietro's silence was a little more sinister. He averts his eyes, momentarily, and thinks back on earlier that day, how he went into full panic mode, tried to do damage control before the situation could escalate and get any worse ( _surprise_ , it could and it most definitely did, but then again, Clint's mother always did say that life got worse before it got better. He's still not sure how much he believes in that though).

"Well, you weren't answering, so I guessed it was because of me." Clint admits. "Yeah. I was so worried about not being ready to say it that I didn't even think about whether you were ready to hear it. You're so goddamn young. Stuff like this, it's heavy, and I thought I'd give you a choice."

"By taking it back?" Pietro asks. "That gives me a choice, to do what? Leave?"

Then, he turns his head inwards, unintentionally mirroring Clint's earlier actions, when he stopped to inhale the lingering scent of Pietro's cologne on his borrowed clothes. Pietro's lips brush lightly over the inside of Clint's elbow. There's a soft exhale, cold air ghosting over bared skin, before Pietro lifts a hand up to rest atop of Clint's own, where it's still resting lightly on the back of his neck. The black tape wrapped around Clint's fingers must feel coarse and irritating, and catch on Pietro's skin, because the younger man pulls a face, pulls Clint's hand away from his neck and brings it down between them.

Gently, Pietro turns Clint's hand over and traces the deep, worn lines of his palm, examining it closely. He runs his index finger over callouses and faded scars, dipping lower to brush over the crease and bend of his wrist, the faint throb of a steady pulse.

"Yeah." Clint says, a beat late. He shifts a little, but, with Pietro's knees planted on either side of his thighs, it's difficult to move that much. Or at all, really. "If that's what you wanted. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it and come on too strong."

Pietro hums quietly, like he's giving Clint's answer some consideration, though probably not a lot since he's still _very_ fixated on tracing the lines of Clint's hand, over and over, as if he's memorizing them. Putting them away for a rainy day, something to remember him by.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Pietro asks, finally, and it makes Clint release a breath he didn't even realize he was holding in.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

"I think," he trails off, a smile on his lips. "I think you love me and I think this scares you. And before you go and do _that_ ," he holds a hand up, pressing one finger against Clint's mouth to actually, physically, shush him. "Just wait. Listen. Are you listening?"

Clint, a fully grown man who's on the brink of turning thirty-five, actually considers petulantly biting on Pietro's finger, just because. He doesn't do it, though, even if he does give it a full ten seconds of serious consideration. In the end, he simply nods along mutely, even tacks on a smile just so he can watch Pietro's smirk spread further across his face.

"If it scares you, maybe that's a good thing, no?" he dips his head a little, to get a better look at Clint's eyes. "Maybe this is how you know it means something. You love me, yes? That's all it is. Love."

He says it differently, this time around. He says the word _love_ like it's something he's only just realizing - like maybe it's finally sinking in, now, and it makes him look at Clint like he's only just seeing him for the first time.

There's something cocksure and pleased about it, though, that warms Clint right up. It's contagious, and erases whatever lingering doubts that Clint once clutched to his chest. He's barely given a moment to breathe before Pietro's on him, again, peppering kisses along the underside of his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Pietro's _so_ pleased with himself. With this, with them, and Clint can't stop the quiet, breathy laugh that spills between them.

Somehow, he's not scared anymore. Not even a little.

Clint winds his arms around Pietro's shoulders and pulls him down, so that he's pressed snug against him, chest-to-chest, because all he's wanted to do since Pietro walked away was hold him. Find him, keep him, hold him. There isn't much room on the longue chair for both of them, but Clint's resigned himself to the fact that he's not moving.

Ever.

Not if it means disrupting this sweet, tender little moment.

He buries his face into the crook of Pietro's neck and stays there, until the sky changes all around them (from blue to pink to orange), until it grows darker and colder, and even Pietro's arm draped over Clint's waist, heavy and solid, isn't enough to keep him completely warm. It's only when he feels Pietro shiver against him-it's barely noticeable, really, except it's kind of hard to miss it when they're like _this_ , so close that not much goes unnoticed-that it occurs to Clint to go back inside. He climbs to his feet, after Pietro does, then crouches down low to gather up his phone and the borrowed cigarette carton that he has every intention of returning. Eventually. He's just grateful that these sweatpants have pockets.

Slowly, they head inside and down the stairwell; all lazy, unhurried steps, and intertwined fingers.

Pietro keeps stopping Clint along the way to pull him in close for quick, hurried kisses. They're acting like a pair of lovesick teenagers that can't keep their hands off each other. Impatience rolls off of Pietro in waves as they reach the apartment door and he proceeds to crowd Clint up against it, dipping his head just enough to be able to capture Clint's mouth, with more heat behind it this time.

More teeth and tongue, and wandering hands.

Dizzy with love, or lust, or _both_ , Clint allows himself this: to indulge in Pietro, in the same way that Pietro is indulging in _him_ , by running his hands over Clint's broad shoulders and down his torso, fingers snagging in the front of his shirt. He learns the curve of Clint's spine, the way his back arches when Pietro sucks a spot on his neck hard enough to leave a mark.

It's deliberate, of course.

Almost everything about Pietro is deliberate, even if he's just doing it to be an asshole, there's always a motive.

Like, when he kicks Clint's ankle, hard, under the table to provoke him, or when he shoves the last slice of banana bread into his mouth to stop Wanda from having it, it's done with intent. More often than not, Pietro acts with the intent to piss off, or annoy, but not always. Sometimes, he just likes seeing what kind of reaction he can draw from others, especially Clint. He's a curious thing, even more so now, when he's got Clint wedged between himself and the door, his hands planted firm on the older man's hips.

"I like you in my clothes." Pietro murmurs, as he trails an index finger along the V part of Clint's V-neck, the hollow of his throat. And, despite belonging to Pietro who is really only a couple sizes larger than Clint, the shirt is surprisingly tight. It's a snug fit. "Except maybe not my shoes." he adds, an afterthought.

"Well, you ran off with mine first, Quicksilver. What was I supposed to wear? It was either these," Clint says, and makes a point of sticking his left foot out. The shoe, unlike the shirt, isn't a tight fit. "Or nothing at all."

"And what would be so bad about that?" Pietro asks, all wide-eyed and faux innocence. "About nothing at all?" he braces an arm against the door, an inch above Clint's head.

Clint considers that. Really, truly, genuinely considers it. And then Wanda opens the door, and they both go stumbling inside the apartment. Clint's a little more off balance than Pietro, since he was the one pressed up flat against the door with a very insistent, very curious, Pietro leaning up against him, all sharp angles and long legs.

Which is probably why Clint ends up on the floor, flat on his back.

A loud _oof_ escapes his lips as Pietro's full weight comes crashing down on top of him. Clint blinks up at the ceiling, at Wanda's unapologetic smile as she peers down at them (she looks amused, more than anything else) and then he looks at Pietro, who was _this_ close to kneeing Clint in the crotch on his way down.

"You're heavier than you look."

"Šupak." Pietro scowls.

"Rude. I don't know what you said," Clint says, with his legs still tangled up around Pietro's, and an ankle hooked behind his knee. "But I know it wasn't a nice word."

"I only know nice words." Pietro argues, and Clint's never heard a bigger lie in his entire life. Okay, maybe he has, but _still_. It makes Clint shake with laughter, because he knows for a fact that Pietro has a filthy mouth on him.

Clint shoves at Pietro's shoulder playfully, to make him move. To climb off, dismantle, whatever. "Yeah, right. I call bullshit on that." he cranes his head and squints up at Wanda. "Your brother's a bad influence. You should hear all the bad words he taught me last night. He's a very bad influence."

"Not nearly as bad as you, I think. Weren't you supposed to help with dinner?" her emerald eyes are fixed on Clint. Then, she throws a dishcloth at him. It lands somewhere off to Clint's right, not quite hitting him in the face like she probably hoped it would. But even though she sounds annoyed, she doesn't look it. If anything, she's practically beaming at Clint, like she's happy for them.

Above him, Pietro buries his face into the front of Clint's shirt and sniggers, not quietly enough to be missed.

Wanda's attention is suddenly drawn elsewhere. "And you were supposed to fetch him, brother, so you're no better." she says, voice light and teasing. "Go clean up before I finish up in the kitchen. There's still time. _Go_."

It takes a lot more effort to stand up than it did to fall down, Clint discovers. Pietro slowly disentangles himself from Clint, crawling off like he's got all the time in the world, like there's not an impatient (yet, still fond, _pleased_ ) looking Wanda hovering over them. Once he's on his feet, he extends a hand to help Clint up and makes a pretty exaggerated grunt of effort.

"You are much heavier than I thought you were, old man. Much heavier." he says, wincing as he presses a hand to his side.

"Don't use my lines on me."

Pietro peels up the corner of his t-shirt, allowing Clint a glimpse of the grizzly bruises splattered across his chest. _Sculpted_ is the first word that comes to mind. The next word is blurted out once Clint realizes Pietro is playing him, acting like he's hurt when he isn't, just because he can.

"Asshole."

"Oh, please." Pietro rolls his eyes, then slings an arm around Clint's shoulders, drawing him closer. "You love me."

Clint doesn't even falter. "Damn right I do."

* * *

Wanda makes a mean chicken and mushroom risotto.

It's far better than any of Clint's many failed attempts at recreating the dish. According to Natasha, the expert in Italian cuisines, his risotto is subpar and gluey. Clint has to agree. It's nothing at all like what Wanda serves up to them. He pretty much licks the plate clean.

The night is glaringly different from the morning, which was spent tangled up in Pietro's bedsheets, reminiscing about family and loss, and all the jagged, ugly topics in between. It's different from the afternoon spent apart and then together, up on the sunny rooftop with faces buried into chests and arms wrapped tight around shoulders.

He's not sure why that is, why it feels so different. An almost imperceptible shift. Maybe it's got something to do with confessions of love and interrupted make out sessions. Whatever the reason, Clint doesn't mind. He doesn't want to think about it too hard either, because that has a way of ruining it.

Apparently, the good mood is infectious. Clint's never seen Wanda smile this much. She stays up with them, late into the night, even though she has to work tomorrow; she's the only one that does, since Pietro's called off for the week due to his still tender injuries, and Clint's happily self-employed. It's a little after 10PM when she says goodnight.

Clint's elbow-deep in soapy warm water, washing up plates and pans, because _the cook shouldn't have to clean_ , when Wanda comes up behind him and squeezes his forearm lightly. He looks at her from over his shoulder and fixes her with a smile.

Then, she stops by where Pietro's still seated at the table, picking idly at a bowl of M&M's. She kisses his temple before disappearing down the hallway. The floorboards creak quietly beneath her feet, before the door to her bedroom clicks shut, and the apartment grows quiet.

It doesn't last.

But then again, Clint didn't expect it to.

A chair scrapes against the tiled kitchen floor as Pietro stands up, too loud in the silence. He slots in perfectly behind Clint, arms bracketing his body on either side as he grips onto the edge of the kitchen counter, with his chin resting on Clint's shoulder. Exhaling quietly, Pietro noses along the back of Clint's neck, before pressing a kiss to a spot just behind the shell of his ear.

Clint has to stop himself from shutting his eyes and sinking back against Pietro, from leaning into his touch. He scrubs at a floral-patterned dinner plate and, once it's clean, leaves it to air-dry on the plastic dish rack.

There isn't much left to do, after that, only a couple more plates and some cutlery that Clint gets through fairly quickly, even with Pietro attached to his back the entire time. Clint's definitely not complaining. He's like a very affectionate sloth, or koala bear, except not.

Except _better_. Pietro pecks him on the cheek (a chaste, parting kiss) before backing away, and Clint finds that he immediately misses the warmth. He wants to chase after it, but doesn't.

When he turns around, Pietro's sitting back down at the table again, gleefully sorting through the bowl of M&M's and plucking out the blue ones. He pops a handful into his mouth and, once he realizes he's being watched, a broad smile breaks out across his face. There's blue all over his teeth, Clint realizes.

Plopping down into a chair at the kitchen table, right next to Pietro's own, Clint picks up his glass of red wine by the stem and swirls the dark, rich liquid around. It's almost empty now, and Clint's definitely on his way to being pleasantly buzzed, which is exactly what he needs after a day like today.

"Mm. I love chocolate." Pietro says, stained blue. It's all blue lips and teeth and _tongue_ \- this becomes obvious to Clint after Pietro scrunches his nose and pokes his tongue out, just because he can. Then, he sticks out his hand and asks, "Want one?"

"Just one?"

"Two, maybe. Depends."

"On what?" Clint asks.

He holds Pietro's gaze above the rim of the cup as he lifts it to his lips and drinks, nearly finishing all of it in two large sips. And, for some reason, he can't shake the feeling that the M&M is somehow tainted, like Pietro's already put it in his mouth, or licked it, or dropped it on the floor, because that's totally his style.

Pietro wriggles impatiently in his chair. His shoulders jerk upright in a half-hearted, weak attempt at a shrug. "On how nicely you ask."

"I don't want any." he says, tipping the rest of his wine back. Finished, he sets the glass aside, then gently bats Pietro's hand away, but it doesn't go very far. After stuffing the chocolate into his mouth, he drops his hand down to rest on Clint's knee, still chewing away happily.

"Your loss."

"Oh, yeah. Big loss. Something tells me I'll get over it."

There must be something _really_ fascinating about Clint's sweatpants, because Pietro can't seem to draw his eyes away from them, brows knitted together in a slight frown as he stares at the spot where his hand is resting on Clint's leg. He has an intense look about him, too, which really should've been Clint's first clue that something was up. The second: _he stopped talking_ , which is something he rarely does.

"I want to go to bed." Pietro blurts out, at the exact second that Clint gently asks, "What's going on with you?"

The apartment grows quiet again. Faintly, somewhere off in the distance, Clint can make out the sound of traffic, of loud cars and blaring sirens. It's soon drowned out by the sound of Pietro's voice as he gets to his feet and tugs on Clint's hand, urging him to stand.

"Will you help me?"

"Sure." Clint nods. "Wait, with what?"

Pietro's smile remains, even if he does roll his eyes pretty dramatically, mock offended at Clint for not listening. His fingers curl around Clint's wrist, leading him away from the kitchen and down the dimly lit hallway. "With my bandages. I need to check them before bed. Will you help me, since you're the expert at these things?"

"Y'know, it doesn't really feel like a compliment when you use air quotes." Clint says, but follows Pietro down the hallway all the same. Somewhere along the way, their hands are disentangled.

He feels something like anticipation building in his chest as they step into the semi-darkness of Pietro's bedroom (he's not sure _why_ , but it's there all the same). Clint closes the door behind them, upon Pietro's request, sealing the room in silence.

Light spills in through the cracks in the curtains, a yellow-orange glare. The bed is still unmade, clothes and belongings scattered haphazardly across the room. Everything looks just like it did that morning, but it doesn't feel the same.

Not even a little.

Pietro pulls his shirt up and over his head, but it gets stuck halfway around his head. He makes a noise, something disgruntled and low and _cute_. Whatever he says, it's muffled by the fabric of his t-shirt. Clint, being the decent boyfriend and human that he is, doesn't laugh. Okay, so maybe he laughs a _little_ , but it's low enough that Pietro probably misses it.

"Hey, I got you. I got you." Clint says, tugging the shirt the rest of the way off. He tosses it aside, doesn't really see where it lands, on the bed or on the floor. "There you go. All better. Now, I can-"

The press of Pietro's lips against his own is enough to make Clint forget whatever he was just about to say. It's not a frantic, hurried kiss. Not heated or impatient, but tentative. Like he's testing, _trying,_ before he loses his nerve. It's definitely not unwelcome, or unwanted.

He pulls away far too quickly.

"Better." Pietro hums. "Much better."

Clint nods mutely. Doesn't even remember what he was in the middle of saying, until Pietro asks him to repeat it. Both impatient and curious to know what was on the tip of Clint's tongue, before Pietro kissed all of the sensible thoughts right out of his head.

Silver wisps of hair spill across Pietro's face again, and stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, in places. Clint lifts a hand to cup Pietro's cheek, then brushes the pad of his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, mindful of the small grazes and bruises. Pietro exhales a sigh, and smiles, his blue eyes trained on Clint; sharp, curious, _warm_. Maybe even a little nervous, as they dart around Clint's face, taking in every detail.

"Now, I can take care of you."

* * *

 **A/N:** Clint's birthday bash is coming up. Who's excited?

Translations:

 **Šupak:** Asshole.


	29. Chapter 29

Clint | **Steve**

* * *

WED 10 JUNE

Clint blames Liam Neeson.

Well, technically, it's only _kind_ of Liam Neeson's fault. Clint was the one that fell asleep on the remote control, which really makes it more his fault than Liam's. Somehow, he managed to bump the volume nearly all the way up. He jolts awake, then, startled by the sound of gunshots. The panic in Clint's chest is real, and the first thing he does is dive onto the carpet.

It takes a moment longer than he would care to admit to realize that the gunfire is coming out of the television. But by then, he's already on the floor with his hands covering his head, seeking cover behind the couch. Clint sits up with a groan and drops his head into his hands.

Liam Neeson's voice continues to blast throughout the silence of Clint's living room, followed by some sort of explosion that shouldn't make Clint jump, but it does. He grabs the remote, mutes Taken 3, then flops back down onto the couch.

Of course, just as he settles in and his heart _stops_ racing, Clint's phone starts vibrating. Incessantly. And, weirdly enough, from somewhere underneath him. Not next to him, or nearby, but under. It must've slipped in one of the cracks of the couch while he was sleeping (or, while he was _trying_ to) and now, he can't find it anywhere. Clint ignores it until it stops. Ignores the way that he's still a little jittery, and on edge. The feeling of Lucky licking at the bared skin of his ankle, though, is a little harder to ignore.

With a sigh, Clint sits up and swings his legs over the couch, planting both feet firmly on the floor.

There's a plate of stone cold pizza on the table, balancing precariously on the edge. He almost reaches for it, then remembers how Lucky does that thing where he hovers over Clint's unattended meals and drools all over them. Lucky starts whining, loud and high-pitched, and _very_ off key, because apparently he has to remind Clint of how he's had such a terrible, horrible, very bad life. And he never eats anything nice, ever, except most of Clint's leftovers.

"Yeah, buddy. I know." Clint groans, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "Oh, yeah. That's a real sad story. Such a hard life. You're breaking my heart."

Pizza is great. Delicious and cheesy, and _glorious_ , and it comes in second best - right after coffee, but even Clint won't eat a slice that has been slobbered on by a very hungry, salivating dog. Okay, so maybe pizza is actually _third_ best. There's coffee, then sleep, and- _oh_ , well, there's also Pietro, who Clint would put before pizza and coffee. Most of the time. And even before sleep, which is one of Clint's favorite pastimes, even if it doesn't agree with him so much lately.

He came home from the Maximoff household on Tuesday and barely slept a wink. It was so terrible that he had to nap, twice, and even that sucked. Falling asleep on this shitty excuse for a couch was never going to end well.

Clint rolls his neck, stretches his arms up above his head, and winces a little at all the loud cracks and pops that follow shortly after.

And then, because he's weak and Lucky's really adorable with his big beady eye, Clint picks the plate up and sets it down in front of the dog. Lucky doesn't waste a moment and lunges right at the pizza, tail wagging excitedly as he devours it whole.

When his phone starts vibrating again, somewhere under his ass, Clint actually curses Liam Neeson. _Fucking Liam Neeson._ He fumbles around for it blindly, slipping his hand down the side of the couch and under the plush cushions, before he finally finds it and makes a small noise of success. Clint digs his thumb into the circular home button and frowns at the screen.

It's full of new Facebook notifications.

He hadn't used the app in months, until yesterday, until Pietro insisted that he reset his password so they could talk via messenger until he gets his phone back (or, the more likely alternative: until he purchases a new one. Thieves don't often return stolen goods) and Clint had said _yeah, sure, whatever you want._ And now, this. Now, his iPhone is blowing up with new alerts every ten seconds or so and Clint's not really sure what to make of that, or what he did to deserve it.

Clint scrolls down the list slowly, only mildly alarmed.

Some of the notifications are from Steve, of all people, who is apparently feeling nostalgic. He's going through and liking most, if not _all_ , of Clint's uploaded photos. And sure, Clint hasn't been active in months, and doesn't exactly post a lot online, but there are a couple of good photos in there. Old times. Pictures from times that Clint had almost forgotten about, like that one disastrous bowling trip.

And then there's Sam, tagging Clint in food-related stuff, like tutorials on How to Make Perfect Crêpes, or thirty second videos on making cronuts at home.

He keeps scrolling down, down, until he reaches the end of the notifications.

 _Pietro sent a sticker (16)_

Clint unlocks the screen with a single swipe and taps on the chat bubble in the bottom corner of his screen. The stickers are of cats. _Cats_. Of course. Sixteen stickers of the same cat in various poses. And, at the very bottom of the chat, three messages. But first, stickers. Clint skims through a couple.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

her name is Pusheen

? you fell asleep again didnt you? ? ?

clinton?

 **Clint Barton:**

Am here

Nope. I definitely wasn't sleeping. I just really got into this documentary and forgot to message back. Sorry.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

oh? what was it abt?

 **Clint Barton:**

Kidnap. Murder. Revenge.

It was Taken 3.

And don't call me Clinton. I regret ever telling you that. I'm just Clint. We clear?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

hi Just Clint

 **Clint Barton:**

New rule: you have to wait at least 10 minutes after I've woken up before you start making dad jokes. At least 10. Because it's not that funny and I'm still laughing. Think it has something to do with the sleep deprivation..

 **Pietro Maximoff**

so you were sleeping! I knew it

;)

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah I was

Because I'm old

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

it is 8pm how are you going to survive friday night ?

 **Clint Barton:**

I keep asking myself that same question.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

taken is the one with laim newson?

*nelson

*nelson

wtf

*meson

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, there are 3 movies, with Laim Meson as the lead.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

dont worry abt your party babe i got you

i will be there for the celebrations

 **Clint Barton:**

I feel better already.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

what time on friday?

 **Clint Barton:**

6 or 7. Nat said she'll get back to me tonight or tomorrow. You need a ride? I can swing by and get you.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

yes i think so. wanda has a date and she might kill me if i ask her for a lift. would that be ok? i dont want to upset the birthday boy

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, babe. Of course it's ok.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

this is why you are my favorite boyfriend :-)

 **Clint Barton:**

You bet I am.

I don't even know where the party is. Can you believe that? Not a big fan of surprise parties. I'm even less of a fan of Stark-themed parties. I got a bad feeling that he's involved.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i think you worry too much

worry less abt these things. you are nearly 40

 **Clint Barton:**

This is why you're my least favorite boyfriend.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

tfw your bf is always so grumpy all the time

#justoldmanthings

 **Clint Barton:**

Tfw your boyfriend sends you 700,000 stickers of cats. Just because he can. Because he's got nothing better to do.

#JustQuicksilverThings

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

did you just hashtag!

get twitter

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm 34, not ancient. I know what hashtags are.

And nope. Not happening.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

so only fb snapchat facetime skype & pinterest? but not twitter? not even for me

what if i asked nicely

 **Clint Barton**

Not even if you begged me.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

but i am asking very nicely

 **Clint Barton:**

Aw, cute.

But it's still not happening. I didn't even use half of those things before I met you and I hardly use them now.

You can blame Sam for that Pinterest account that I never use. He just wouldn't stop bugging me about it. And sure, you're way more annoying than he'll ever be, but I'm still not signing up. Just not my thing.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

ugh ok fine

what are you doing?

 **Clint Barton:**

You mean apart from messaging you and not signing up to Twitter? Not much. I'm not really into this movie so I think I'm gonna head upstairs soon. Grab a shower and maybe get an early night.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

.. **..**

 **Clint Barton:**

This is usually the part where you make a joke about me being an old man. Which I am, sure, but I don't care. Gotta swing by Steve's in the morning and catch up, otherwise he'll never get off my case.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

and you feel up to doing this?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, I'll be fine. Steve's good company.

I think when he came around to feed Lucky while I was at yours, he let his nuisance of a boyfriend in. Somebody messed around with my paint tins and wrote "Clint sucks" on the living room wall. Now I have to paint over it. It was either Barnes, or Lucky's real pissed at me for being away for so long. He's still giving me the cold shoulder.

But I'm leaning more towards Barnes. He's a pest.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

ha hah i like this nuisance of a boyfriend

 **Clint Barton:**

Of course you do. You two have a lot in common.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

like what?

 **Clint Barton:**

Lemme think.

You both tell really bad jokes. Seriously bad. Think you're funnier than you actually are. You both suck at darts. He's also got that whole floppy hair prince charming kind of thing going on, like you. Did I mention the bad jokes? Cause he tells a lot of them.

I think you'll get on just fine.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i like him already

what was his name again? barnes?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yep. Bucky Barnes. I've known him for years.

And I think you already know Steve.

Well, you do. You know him.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

how?

 **Clint Barton:**

He's an officer. Might've even been the one to take your statement. I should've mentioned sooner that I knew him, but it just slipped my mind. If that's too weird for you, or brings up stuff you don't wanna think about, then we don't have to go on Friday. We can just stay in? I mean it.

Whatever you want.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

it will be fine ok i am not going to keep my boyfriend from going to his own birthday party and i dont want to miss it either

how long have they been together? bucky & steve?

 **Clint Barton:**

You're sure? Because I mean it, we don't have to go. And I think it'll be 12 years this November.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

wow 12 yrs is a long time

 **Clint Barton:**

Very long, yeah. Not nervous, are you?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

no

ok only a little

 **Clint Barton:**

There's nothing to be nervous about. It's not like you'll be alone, right? I'll be there. Obviously. It'd be seriously weird if I wasn't at my own birthday party.

We'll have some dinner and drinks. Play some pool. And I can teach you how to throw a dart, because that's still bugging me. It'll be a quiet night with a few close friends. Not so scary at all. I got you. Don't worry about it.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

what should i wear

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't even know what I'm wearing. You'd probably have better luck asking someone else?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

oh yes i forgot that you only own plaid

wanda will know what to wear i will ask her instead

 **Clint Barton:**

.. **..**

Smartass.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

is that the best insult you have? you must be very tired

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah. I had trouble sleeping last night.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

so did i

 **Clint Barton:**

Feeling any better? How's the eye?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

better

less swollen today i think

 **Clint Barton:**

Good. You called off work for the week?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

yes i have my shifts covered

and also for the week after unless i am feeling better

 **Clint Barton:**

Take it easy, yeah? Don't push yourself.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i will be fine

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't be fine, be careful. There's a difference.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

.. **..**

 **Clint Barton:**

Sorry. I'm being bossy.

I guess I just worry about you and don't want anything to happen. Don't push yourself too hard.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i will be ok i just hate this

 **Clint Barton:**

I know you do, babe. But it'll be better in a couple days, so you just have to stick it out until then. You'll be back doing your lessons and walking your dogs before you know it and it'll be like nothing ever happened

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

no not that

well ok yes that annoys me but i dont like this

i dont like being apart

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, right. I don't like it either.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i miss you

 **Clint Barton:**

I didn't want to go, but I had to. And I know that sounds weak. There's just stuff I can't leave behind right now.

Like this whole thing with Laura. I can't leave Lucky alone for too long either. This is our home and he's my boy. I wanted to stay in that bed forever. Believe me, I did. But it doesn't matter how much I wanted it...I had to get back to the real world.

But you're welcome here, whenever you wanna come and visit. I mean it. Come over. Any day, any time. The same goes for your sister.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

you would want us there?

 **Clint Barton:**

Of course I do. It's a big house. There's plenty of room for both of you.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

even for your nuisance of a boyfriend

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, sure, I got lots of room especially for my nuisance of a boyfriend who isn't that much of a nuisance.

It's just not the same when he's not around. I guess you could say that I got used to him being there. That I miss him and haven't slept right since I got back. When I wake up, the first thing I do is reach for him.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

:((

i didnt want you to leave yesterday you know

 **Clint Barton:**

I know

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

so why did you

 **Clint Barton:**

Babe

You know why. It's just not practical right now.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i still miss you

 **[DRAFT] Clint Barton:**

And I miss you. So damn much. Maybe you could come by this weekend? That's if you don't have som

A notification pops up in the middle of the screen, then, just as Clint's mid-reply.

 **Low Battery  
** 20% of battery remaining

[Dismiss]

Clint hits dismiss and taps out the rest of his response, hitting send before he can overthink it any further. Then, he rises from the couch and heads towards the staircase. Lucky's since finished the pizza, so Clint takes a minor detour and stops at the kitchen briefly to dispose of the dirty plate. Once he's halfway up the stairs, he whistles for Lucky to follow. He trots along happily behind Clint.

Somehow, the battery is on 15% by the time Clint finds a charger and plugs it into a socket. He hovers nearby, for a moment, but doesn't wait around for too long and heads for the bathroom down the hall.

Fifteen minutes later, after Clint's showered and shaved, and dressed in a pair of loose fitting pyjama bottoms (a gift from Steve that Clint only wears when it's laundry day. Okay, so almost _every_ day is laundry day, but still, the pants are too baggy and kind of scratchy, yet he doesn't have the heart to throw them away) he pads back over to his phone with a towel draped over his bare shoulders and crouches down next to it. He brings up Pietro's reply, smiling as he skims over it.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

sorry I have plans with my boyfriend

obviously i was talking abt you so yes i will be there. what time / day?

 **Clint Barton:**

Whenever you want

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i could stay the whole weekend?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh

You wanna stay over?

 **Pietro Maximoff** :

is this not ok?

 **Clint Barton:**

No, no. It's fine. You can stay. Whatever you want.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

whatever i want? hmm

i want pancakes

 **Clint Barton:**

Of course you do.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

five pancakes

 **Clint Barton:**

That's a very specific number of pancakes.

Don't forget the blueberries

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i will make them for breakfast

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah? Make sure you share them with Wanda. She's been good to me.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

these are not for wanda

 **Clint Barton:**

Pancake hoarder

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i would make them for you old man

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, like this weekend?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

yes if you want me to

 **Clint Barton:**

I'd like that.

Maybe I'll cook something nice for dinner. Or if that goes badly, we can always order some takeaway. You can't go wrong with pizza, right?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

like a date?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, like a date. It'll be our second. Can you believe that?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

 _(poop emoji)_

 **Clint Barton:**

Did you seriously just send the poop emoji

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

oops

i meant to do this one instead

 _(broken heart emoji)_

 **Clint Barton:**

That's not any better.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

this one!

this

(heart eyes emoji

see? the love heart eyes

because i have the heart eyes for you

 **Clint Barton:**

You sure about that?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

very sure 1000% sure

 **Clint Barton:**

Ok, well, that's good.

Time for bed, Quicksilver. I'll talk to you in the morning. Be good xx

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

when am i not?

night xx

Sleeping alone isn't as nice as _not_ sleeping alone, Clint decides, as he settles in underneath the duvet. Definitely not as nice as having someone close, just within arms reach. He tosses and turns for a good half hour, at least, before finally dozing off.

It's a restless sleep. Clint's used to those.

When he wakes, a little after 5AM according to the digital alarm clock on his bedside table, the first thing Clint does is pat the spot next to him. It's still a little dark out, but slowly growing lighter, and when Clint realizes he's alone, the next thing he does is check his phone for messages - there's a new Facebook Messenger alert that Clint brings up immediately. Even though it's dated back to 2AM, Clint still replies like he half expects Pietro to be awake.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

sweet dreams agent barton xxxx

 **Clint Barton:**

You were in them. Xx

* * *

THURS 11 JUNE

Coffee is good. Rich, warm, _good_. It makes the morning fly by, but maybe that's because Clint's already had four and a half cups.

He tidies up in the kitchen, throws out the cardboard takeaway boxes that still smelly faintly of pizza, paints over the love letter that Bucky left for him on the living room wall, and forgets all about why he got up so early in the first place.

Because of Steve.

It's half nine when he realizes. Steve's caller ID lights up the screen of Clint's iPhone. But, just like he _always_ does, Steve hangs up. He doesn't give Clint nearly enough time to climb down from the ladder and answer the call.

They've argued about this before, countless times before: _it's called a mobile phone for a reason, Clint, because it's mobile. Keep it with you_. And he does, sure. Barely goes anywhere without his phone these days. It isn't his fault that Steve hangs up pretty much as soon as he dials.

A message lights up the screen, followed shortly by a second, and a third.

 **[9:37AM]:**

 **Hey, Barton. I tried calling. We were supposed to meet at 9, remember? Did something come up?**

 **[9:39AM]:**

 **Or did I get the date wrong again?**

 **[9:40AM]:**

 **Message me back so I know you're ok.**

[9:43AM]:

Shit. I'm sorry, man. Totally forgot.

 **[9:46AM]:**

 **Want me to swing by instead?**

[9:49AM]:

.. **..**

[9:53AM]:

Don't worry bout it. I'll just see you on Friday, yeah?

 **[9:56AM]:**

 **I wouldn't miss it for the world.**

 **[9:57AM]:**

 **You're sure you don't want me to come around? I'm only around the corner. I know things have been rough for you lately, Clint, but you still have people that care about you.**

[10:03AM]:

Things are good, Steve. I mean it.

 **[10:06AM]:**

 **You're sure?**

[10:08AM]:

Not really, but I'm trying to be.

[10:09AM]:

I know I shouldn't ask, but have you caught them? The assholes that beat up Pietro. Y'know, my friend. Pietro. He means a lot to me so it'd be nice to know I had some good news, for once.

 **[10:10AM]:**

 **I can't talk about this with you, Clint. As much as I want to, I just can't.**

 **[10:11AM]:**

 **Yo** **u're retired and I'm not even working the case. I took his statement but haven't had any further involvement. All I can say is that nothing has changed. You just have to give it time, Clint.**

 **[10:14AM]:**

 **See you on Friday?**

[10:16AM]:

Uh-huh. I'll be there with bells on..

[10:18AM]:

Oh, and he'll be there.

 **[10:20AM]:**

 **Who?**

 **[10:21AM]:**

 **The kid?**

[10:24AM]:

Yep. We're dating. Kind of.

[10:25AM]:

I don't know why I said that. There's no "kind of" about it. I just thought you should know that we're together.

 **[10:26AM]:**

 **Is it serious?**

[10:28AM]:

Yeah.

 **[10:30AM]:**

 **Clint, you're my friend and I only want what's best for you, and you know that. But are you sure this is it?**

[10:33AM]:

Jesus, Steve. Don't take that tone with me.

 **[10:36AM]:**

 **There's no tone.**

[10:34AM]:

Stop frowning or your face will get stuck like that.

 **[10:37AM]:**

 **I just hope you know what you're doing.**

[10:39AM]:

Never have before. Why start now?

[10:40AM]:

Don't answer that. Gotta go.

Steve, of course, being _Steve_ , does answer.

He's always cared too much - more than Clint was used to, anyway. Two alerts pop up on the lockscreen: one text from Steve (who is saved under the name of "Stove" in Clint's contacts) and a Facebook message from Pietro. He opens the text first. Steve, with his big heart and his good intentions, only wants what's best for Clint. And he says as much, again, like maybe it hasn't quite sunken in yet, even after all this time.

 **[10:42AM]:**

 **I only want what's best for you and don't want to see you get hurt. Be sure that this is it before it gets too serious.**

 _Too late,_ Clint thinks. Way too late for that.

And sure, he only has good intentions, but that doesn't stop Clint from feeling a little ticked off at Steve.

He types up several replies and doesn't end up sending any of them. Instead, he closes the message and brings up his conversation with Pietro. It's a sticker. Well, _two_ stickers. Of that damn cat.

 **Clint Barton:**

You and your cats.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

im bored

 **Clint Barton:**

Hi Bored, I'm Clint.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

that was terrible why are we together

you used to be much funnier

i dont think we should see each other anymore

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, shut up. It was funny.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i mean it tho

im bored ((and dont u dare say that terrible joke again))

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, me too.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

so? what can we do

 **Clint Barton:**

Wanna bang?

*hang

I mean. Whatever.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

ha haha yes

 **Clint Barton:**

That was a yes to the hanging, right? Because I know just the place. You'll love it.

* * *

THURS 11 JUNE

"I'm not having a crisis." Clint says, a lie. He's standing in the middle of a Baskin-Robbins and is kind of having a crisis. A very mild one, but a crisis all the same. With his iPhone wedged between ear and shoulder, Clint taps at the glass display case. "I want that one."

"One scoop of Cookies 'n Cream coming up." Alex, the 20-something year old server behind the counter, clad in that hideously bright pink t-shirt, says.

Natasha's voice echoes down the line then, as Clint nods in confirmation and continues browsing through the row of multi-colored flavors, pausing at mint choc, which he's always been a sucker for. _"What?"_

"I'm not having a crisis."

 _"No, not that. I heard a voice."_

"Oh." Clint says. He glances over his shoulder, checks for someone that isn't there - yet. "Well, I'm out. I guess that happens sometimes. When you're out, people are there. They tend to talk."

 _"Baskin-Robbins?"_

"I don't even wanna know how you knew that, but yeah, I'm at Baskin-Robbins." Clint says, veering back towards the counter. He pulls out his wallet and slaps the right amount of bills, along with a couple coins, down onto the counter, and waits. "And I'm not having a crisis."

Natasha considers that. Briefly. _"You seem to be handling it pretty well, all things considered."_

"Guess I just don't care."

 _"Uh-huh."_

"What, so Tony's hijacked my party? What's the worst that can happen?" he asks, even though this is kind of _it_. It's exactly what Clint was hoping to avoid. "I knew it was gonna happen. Sooner or later, Tony Stark always gets his way."

 _"And you're fine with it?"_ she asks.

He shrugs, realizes that Natasha can't actually see him (or, maybe she can, but he'd rather think that she can't) and then makes a low, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Okay, so he's having a small crisis. It's miniscule, really. Nothing to fuss about. He's turning 35 in a little over a week and instead of having the party that he actually wanted, he gets _this_. He gets Tony Stark and his tendency to go overboard.

All of his anxiety melts away, though, when he glances out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Baskin-Robbins and spots Pietro on the sidewalk.

He's hard to miss in his Adidas windbreaker, ridiculously tight skinny jeans, and shiny high tops. Underneath the jacket he's wearing a plain white t-shirt. Clint's grinning before Pietro even steps inside. He's only seconds away, now. _Steps_.

Clint hasn't seen him since Tuesday, which isn't all that long, sure. Except it feels like weeks, not days, and he only grows more and more restless with each slow step that Pietro takes towards the building.

"There you are." Clint says, to himself, mostly. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. Then, when Natasha makes a curious noise, Clint stutters out, "Uh-finally, my order's here. There you are, ice-cream. I gotta go, Nat." he ends the call and stuffs his phone into his jacket pocket, stuffed in with his wallet and keys.

The ice-cream cone is actually ready, so Clint picks it up off the plastic tray on the counter just as Pietro slinks up behind him and pecks him on the cheek. _Twice_.

It's only then that Clint notices the hat.

Navy blue, pulled down low, barely concealing the dark bruises around his eye. It's less swollen, at least. That's something. Clint traces his finger along the brim of the hat lightly, before dropping his hand away.

"Going incognito?" Clint asks, then takes a lick of his ice-cream. He holds it out to Pietro a moment later, who wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "It's a good look. Suits you." he says, teasing, but it's true. It _does_ look good, because Pietro's the kind of guy that would look good in nothing but a burlap sack.

Pietro, however, seems to think that Clint's simply poking fun at him. Which is probably why he yanks the cap off and pulls it down on Clint's head, hard, and down over his ears, nearly covering his eyes and partially obscuring his vision.

"Better? You wanted the hat so much, you can have it."

"I don't want your hat." Clint scoffs, but still doesn't take the cap off. He adjusts the hat a little, so it isn't down _that_ low and blocking his view of the younger man, then gives Pietro's arm a light squeeze. "Order something nice. I'll grab us a table."

Inside the store, it's pretty much deserted, aside from a couple of stray customers that are hovering around near the display cases. Clint picks a table that isn't sticky, but _is_ right next to the window. He's surprised when, less than thirty seconds later, Pietro joins him, because he knows just how indecisive his boyfriend can be at times.

"That was quick."

"What can I say? I know what I want." Pietro says, with an exaggerated sigh, and drops down into the plastic chair directly across the table from Clint. Then, with the biggest grin plastered on his face, he waves his ice-cream cone around and proudly announces his choice: "Double scoop of Cotton Candy."

Now, _that_ spells trouble.

(which is something that Clint's never been any good at staying out of, so this will be no different).

There isn't much room left between them, not with the way that their knees are knocking together underneath the table, so it doesn't take much effort for Clint to lean over, take Pietro's chin in his hand and kiss him - Pietro makes a surprised noise, something caught between a squawk and a squeak. A little undignified, sure, but pleased. _Happy._ Clint pulls back with a smile, leans back in his chair and takes a bite out of his Cookies 'n Cream.

"Did you really just do that?" Pietro asks, horrified, and it makes Clint's heart stutter to a halt.

"What, I can't kiss my boyfriend in public?" Clint frowns. He's mid-bite when Pietro's eyes go wide, again, and he gestures at Clint's face vaguely. "Seriously? I can't kiss you in public? Since when?"

"You can kiss me whenever you want, old man, I meant _that_. You bit it." his ice-cream has started to melt, a little, and drips down onto the table. Pietro almost uses his sleeve to mop up the mess, but Clint slides a napkin over before he can.

"Oh. Yeah, so what?"

"So, you bit it. You don't _bite_ ice-cream."

"I'm a biter." Clint grins, around a mouthful of Cookies 'n Cream. "There are worse things to be."

Pietro snorts. "I am not so sure." he says, narrowing his eyes at Clint. He gives him an obvious once-over. "The hat suits you, even if you are a thief."

"How am I a thief? You gave it to me, babe, which makes it a gift." Clint says. He pulls the cap off and drops it down onto the table between them. Plain, navy, nondescript. It looks more like something out of Clint's wardrobe, not Pietro's. "This doesn't seem like your style. Figured you'd be more of an Adidas guy. Y'know, to go with your shoes, and the jacket. Either that, or something glittery."

"You can always buy me one, if you like."

"Well, that's good to know."

"Buy me a sparkly hat." he says. "But only if you want to."

The corner of Pietro's mouth is pulled up into a smirk as he kicks Clint's ankle playfully under the table, which is just Classic Pietro. And, as always, it's not clear if he's flirting or just being his usual annoying self. He's still kind of cute though.

Clint's nearly thirty five years old. He's pretty sure that "cute" isn't a word he should be using. At all. Probably shouldn't be using it to describe his boyfriend either, but still, the word fits him quite like nothing else.

"What made you change your mind?" Pietro asks, licking lazily at his bright pink and purple ice-cream cone. "You had plans, yes? Did your friend cancel them?"

"I cancelled."

"Didn't you want to see Steve?"

Clint shrugs, then. Weak, half-hearted, and coy. _Almost_. It isn't something that he often is, or ever was. He's nearly thirty five, he doesn't get coy. And even if he does, it's only when he's around Pietro, so really, it's the younger man's fault.

"Yeah, I did." he says. "But I wanted to see you more, so here I am, and here we are. Stop looking at me like that, kid, and eat your damn ice-cream before it melts."

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor startles Clint, at first. It draws him out of his thoughts, which is a good thing, of course. Always a good thing. Somehow, Pietro manages to _not_ drop his ice-cream as he drags himself over, chair and all, to sit next to Clint, wedged in so close that their elbows are brushing.

"You missed me." Pietro says, waggling his eyebrows.

"Like a hole in the head."

Pietro pulls a face, like he's not even a little convinced. "I know you make jokes to deflect, but I _also_ know that you missed me. Not as much as I missed you, I think." he says that last part like it's a secret, a conspiracy meant only for Clint's ears.

"What makes you think that?" he asks.

"Just a feeling."

Something in Clint's chest eases up - or softens, just like it always does, around Pietro. Little by little, the walls he built up around himself are slowly being taken apart, brick by brick. With the hand that isn't holding onto his ice-cream cone, Clint touches Pietro's jaw, before dropping his hand to rest on Pietro's knee. He leaves it there, to rest, to remind himself that _yes, this is real, and yes, I can be happy. I am._

"Do you want a taste?"

"Of what?" Clint blinks.

"The ice-cream. It is very sweet, like me. Taste it. Here, try some." he offers, innocently holding the ice-cream cone out. All wide-eyed and still grinning widely like a Cheshire cat. "It will not _bite_ you. Go ahead, old man. Try some."

Narrowing his eyes, Clint hesitates. It's not that he doesn't trust Pietro, because he does, but he's trouble. _Lots_ of trouble. Always has, and always will be, most likely. Clint's definitely not complaining. He licks at the ice-cream, the swirls of purple and pink mixed together. It's sweet. A little too sweet to have all the time, but then again, Pietro's always had more of a sweet tooth than Clint has.

He takes a bite out of the ice-cream, just to watch Pietro scowl. It's big enough that it leaves an indent in the shape of Clint's teeth. Pietro smiles sweetly.

Clint ends up with ice-cream all over his chin and mouth.

"Since you like it so much," Pietro says.

"I can have it." Clint says, finishing the sentence for him. His own ice-cream is melting, with pale droplets falling onto the table - and onto his hand. Clint licks along the joint between forefinger and thumb, and carries on like it's completely normal to have ice-cream smeared across the bottom half of his face.

When he glances up, he sees that Pietro is dangerously close to dissolving into a fit of laughter. He's a little on the cautious side though, like he's worried about why Clint doesn't seem all that bothered by the ice-cream smeared across his face. Pietro's resolve doesn't last and he starts snickering.

He tries (and fails) to hide his laughter behind his hand, but that only seems to make it _so_ much worse. Clint's laughing along before he realizes it. The ice-cream beard tastes good, at least, when Clint drags his tongue along his bottom lip.

"You're such a punk." Clint mutters beneath his breath, but not quietly enough for Pietro to miss. He says it fondly. "What's funny? Is there something on my face? Oh-oh, there is? Well, you used my napkin, so I'm gonna have to use yours."

"I don't have one."

"No? Guess I'll just have to use you. Come here. C'mon, I wanna give you a kiss." Clint smirks, shifting in his chair so he's stretching over towards Pietro. "Just one. Gimme a kiss."

Pietro bats him away, at first, and shoves at his shoulder playfully. He's shaking with laughter, now, which makes it that much more difficult to exchange actual words. It's madness. Clint's laughing nearly as hard as Pietro is and still isn't sure _why_ , all he knows is that he's happy and enjoying himself, and a little more in love with Pietro than he was before. Which is impossible, sure, and _yet_.

Maybe it's because he's learning new things about Pietro: he scrunches his nose up when he finds something really funny, he's allergic to walnuts and doesn't like cookie dough. He tells Clint all of this in between fits of giggles - there's no other word for it. He's giggling. Clint finds it way more endearing than he probably should.

"One kiss." Clint says.

He doesn't need to ask again.

It's a mess. Such a mess, but Clint wouldn't have it any other way. His skin is sticky from ice-cream, from Pietro's lips travelling across his jaw, along his chin, up, up to the corner of his mouth.

Pietro exhales quiet laughter against his skin and Clint's face hurts from smiling so much. He's surprised that it isn't messier. There are spots of ice-cream on the table, on Clint's jeans, the back of his hand. He still can't bring himself to care all that much. Being with Pietro feels good. And this, it feels like _just_ what he needed.

Just what they both needed, actually, judging by the grin still fixed on Pietro's face. It's sweet, easy, and a sharp contrast against the dark bruises and angry red scrapes. Clint catches Pietro's free hand by the wrist and presses a kiss to his knuckles, because he can.

It's innocent.

Nothing at all like the way that Pietro kisses him, then, his tongue grazing over Clint's lower lip and sucking it into his mouth, making Clint groan a little too loudly in the middle of the otherwise silent Baskin-Robbins.

Maybe that's why he drops his ice-cream cone (or, what's left of it; it's melting, fast. Pink and purple beads dribble down the side of the cone). Maybe that's why he drops what _remains_ of his ice-cream cone into Clint's lap.

He's up and on his feet in a heartbeat, because it's cold and wet, and soaking right through his jeans. Pietro looks mildly apologetic - that is until the ice-cream falls off of Clint's lap as he stands and onto the floor, and the look is wiped right off his face, replaced by something forlorn and heartbroken.

"You dropped it." Pietro pouts.

"But-what-it was _you._ " Clint stammers, still holding onto his own ice-cream cone. It's a lost cause. Most of it has melted and is currently dripping onto the floor. "No, you dropped it. Right into my lap. This is great."

Pietro bites down on his bottom lip, hard, like he has to physically stop himself from laughing - and honestly, Clint's not much better. He's not sure why he finds it so funny. It's sticky and messy, just like everything else. Clint drops his ice-cream cone into the bin on his way to the bathroom. There are a couple of empty stalls, and some urinals along the far wall, but Clint heads for the sink. He pulls a couple sheets of paper towel from the dispenser and runs them under the water, dampening the edges, before he starts dabbing at the stain on his jeans.

Half bent over at a sink, rubbing at his crotch, isn't really Clint's best look. He straightens up only when the door swings open. Pietro appears, still looking only a little apologetic, like he's torn between feeling bad and feeling amused.

"Is it bad?" Pietro asks, grimacing when he sees the stain.

Clint huffs out a laugh. "Yeah. It looks like I wet myself, or that I," he trails off. The ice-cream soaked into his jeans, making everything feel cold and sticky. He dabs lightly at the spot anyway, even though it's not really helping. But it's not really making it worse either.

"Or, what?"

"Nothing." he grumbles. He's wiped up as much as he can, and now his pants just have to dry. Clint scrunches the paper towel up into a ball, throws it at the wastebin off to Pietro's left, and _scores_. "You really know how to make a mess, don't you?"

Pietro's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He throws a glance back over his shoulder, then, as if he's checking that no one else is around. "Me? You were the one that started with all of the, you know, the kissing. This is not my fault." he says, amused, and waves his hand about vaguely. "You did this, old man."

"Oh, ok. Sure." Clint scoffs. "You kissed me first."

"Actually, you took my hand, like so." Pietro demonstrates by taking Clint's right hand and pressing his lips to his ice-cream sticky knuckles. "And did _that_. So, this is very much on you, old man."

"Yeah? You don't say." he says.

It's quite literally _on_ him. Not just on, though, but all over. Clint pulls a face, and feels a little uncomfortable about the huge damp stain on the front of his jeans. Maybe it wouldn't show so much if he were wearing black jeans, like Pietro, but no, he had to go for light blue denim.

"Take them off," Pietro tugs on a belt loop, then, pulling Clint towards him. "And let them dry under the machine."

 _The machine_ in question is the bathroom hand dryer - it is located conveniently next to the row of sinks, but it's still a very public bathroom, and Clint's not stripping down. He shakes his head, swats Pietro's hand away and takes a steady step backwards. Away from Pietro and his devious smile.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I might not be wearing anything underneath."

Pietro looks scandalized. His mouth falls open to form a rather surprised O. But he also looks weirdly happy about it. _Too_ happy. "Might not? Might? You either are or you aren't, old man. Is your memory not so good today?" he asks, with the biggest shit eating grin.

"Screw you."

"You would need your pants off for that. I-"

"I'm not taking my pants off in a public bathroom, kid. I don't care how much you want me to, I'm not doing it. I won't." Clint interrupts. "Oh, yeah. The jig is up, pal. You dropped your ice-cream into my lap just so you could get me alone. To seduce me."

"Is it working?"

Clint considers that. "Why don't we get outta here and find out?"

The biggest flaw in that plan, though, is that Clint forgot to factor in the way that life just likes to screw him. Plain and simple. He and Pietro are giddy, practically tripping over themselves in their haste to reach Clint's dusty pickup truck. Too giddy, actually, to pay any notice to the faces they pass on the sidewalk. Somehow, one of them _knows_ him and actually calls his name.

Somehow, he didn't recognize them at first glance.

It's been so long, after all. _Weeks._

He's got one arm slung around Pietro's shoulders, turning around together to face the stranger (who isn't a stranger at all, actually). Clint's tongue suddenly feels too heavy in his mouth, and his throat is oddly constricted.

"Laura."

* * *

 **A/N:** I recommend checking this chapter out on ao3 if you want to see the pictures / emojis that they actually send to each other. They don't appear on here, but actually look really cute on ao3.


	30. Chapter 30

THURS 11 JUNE

Life likes to screw Clint. Maybe that's why he runs into his ex-girlfriend (who was _almost_ his ex-fiancé, once, a really long time ago) outside of a Baskin-Robbins with his new, younger, and uncharacteristically quiet, boyfriend draped all over him.

Clint untangles himself from Pietro's side. His cheeks feel hot, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. Which is just plain stupid, because he's allowed to have this. He's allowed to be happy.

And he is.

Sometimes, he's so happy it scares him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

Maybe he shouldn't feel guilty about it, but a part of him does. That's why he untangles himself from Pietro's side, because he feels shitty for flaunting his happiness when, towards the end, he and Laura had so little of it. Her smile is uncertain, at first. There's a flicker of confusion in her eyes as she glances between them. Clint, in his ice-cream sticky jeans, and Pietro in his slick Adidas windbreaker.

But she's quick to smooth out her furrowed brow and pull Clint in close for a hug. It's awkward, at first. Clint tenses when Laura's arms wrap around him. Then again, it was always going to be awkward - the first time he's seen her since they split up, and this is how it happens, outside of a Baskin-Robbins. Of all places, of all times.

Clint almost laughs. _Almost_.

Because he thought his life was a mess before, when his ankles were tangled up with Pietro's underneath the table and his skin was sticky with ice-cream, or when he was diving onto the floor of his living room because he dreamt he was being shot at. Now, there's Laura, with her arms wrapped tight around Clint like she's actually missed his mopey, miserable ass (she'd be one of few).

"Laura." Clint says, mustering up a smile. He feels Pietro's hand on the small of his back and tenses. "Hi, it's good to see you. Really good."

It's awkward, sure, but still good. He's not sure if the hand pressing against the small of his back is supposed to be a comfort or an encouragement, but either way, it works. Clint finally moves his arms and returns the hug, holding Laura against him.

Some of the tension seeps out of Clint's body and he feels himself relax, if only slightly.

There's a kindness, there, in the corners of Laura's eyes, when she pulls away. It makes Clint's throat feel oddly tight. Really, she's not all that different from Steve, with his big smile and his only good intentions. Clint loved her, once. He loves her still, just not in the same way.

(Loving someone and being in love with them are vastly different things, Steve had once said, and it took a long time for Clint to realize the difference. He fell out of love with Laura, but that didn't mean he stopped caring for her)

He loves Bucky, also hates him a little, but he's not _in_ love with him. The same can be said about Laura, that he was in love with her, once, when he was a different version of himself, when they were good for each other. Clint never hated her. He hated himself plenty, enough for both of them, but never her. Even now, he only wants what's best for her and still hopes that she'll find it.

"You look well." Laura says gently, snapping Clint out of his reverie, and he's glad for it.

Nostalgia has never done him any favors.

Clint snorts. Of course he does. Which was actually kind of rude to do, he realizes, since, judging by the look on her face and the sincerity in her eyes, she was being serious, _genuine._ He makes a point of clearing his throat.

"Oh. Thanks, so do you." he nods. "I mean it. You do."

"Pilates."

"What?"

"I've started taking classes."

"Yoga's cool." Clint says, rubbing at the underside of his jaw. He almost wants to step out of his body, _just_ so he can slap some actual sense into himself. _Yoga's cool_. It isn't even the same thing. "I mean, yeah, that's good."

Laura's gaze is drawn downwards, then, to Clint's still very damp crotch. She frowns, and looks puzzled - for lack of a better word. "Oh. What happened to your pants? Do you need a tissue?"

"He had an accident." Pietro says smugly, both physically and verbally inserting himself into the conversation. He drapes an arm over Clint's shoulder, and cosies up right against his side, with a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "But we will take care of it, won't we, honey?"

 _Honey._

"Mm. Yeah, we were just about to go and take care of it, and then _you_ happened. We walked into you. Well, I mean, I did." Clint says. "Uh, anyway. Next topic."

Laura smiles warmly, but doesn't say anything, and Clint wonders if that's how it's always going to be with them, if there will always be so much left unsaid. Maybe it's for the best. A strange, sort of awkward, silence falls over them, but Clint's too distracted thinking about Pietro's nickname to bother with making small talk. His boyfriend has never been all that big on pet names, except for babe, old man, and šupak, whatever that means.

"I'm sorry, I feel so rude." she says, sticking out her hand for Pietro to shake. "Hi, I'm Laura. I don't think we've met before. I'm a friend of Clint's."

A part of Clint hopes the world will open up, and swallow him whole. He wants to slink away, maybe make a break for his truck, or disappear into a crowd. Life likes to screw him in all the worst ways though, which means there's no way out of his.

Pietro, being the sweet thing that he is, says, "It is nice to finally meet you, Laura. I have heard so many nice things about you."

He's not as smug-or as cheeky-as he was a moment earlier, Clint notices. Polite and sweet, sure, but tentative, like he genuinely wants to make a good first impression. He also notices the way that Laura's eyes flick between them, again, curiously. Maybe it's the body language that gives them away.

Clint was, after all, pretty much attached to Pietro's side as they strolled down the sidewalk, arms wrapped around each other. Or, maybe it's the way that Pietro's got one arm hanging over Clint's shoulders, the way that he's angled towards him, the way that he keeps glancing over to not-so-discreetly check in on Clint , even though Laura's standing _right_ there.

Somehow, she knows. Maybe it's because they've been too obvious - too in love, lost in their own little world, tripping over each other on the sidewalk and kissing each other senseless in the middle of a Baskin-Robbins.

(Bucky and Steve have always had that sickly sweet thing about them, so maybe now he and Pietro have it too; it seem possible. Maybe that's what gives them away).

Laura manages to juggle plastic bags of groceries and her handbag on one arm, while Clint can barely string a sentence together. He suddenly feels stupid, with Pietro's hat pulled down low on his head, and takes it off, holding onto it tightly in his hands just so he can have something to fidget with.

"How do you two know each other?" Laura asks, lifting a hand to her eyes to shield them from the harsh sunlight beating down onto the sidewalk.

And, of course, Pietro looks to Clint for his answer, like he's silently saying, _this is all you. By all means, go ahead. You take this one. Well, how do we know each other?_

"This is," Clint falters.

Various responses flicker through his head.

He's not really sure how to word it: this is my boyfriend. The one I met accidentally, a couple weeks ago, when he sent me several text messages that were meant for his twin sister, Wanda. This is my boyfriend. He tells bad jokes and has a nice ass. My boyfriend, Pietro, one of the only reasons I get out of bed in the morning. The love of my life. _Probably_. Possibly. Definitely. He's my boyfriend.

"This is my,"

"Pietro." says the younger man, with a charming smile. He looks to Laura's groceries, then offers out his hand. "Do you need some help with those? I can carry them to your car for you, if you like."

"No, that's fine, but it's sweet of you to offer." she assures. Then, still curious, Laura asks, "So have you known each other long?"

"Long enough." Pietro answers, giving Clint's shoulders a light squeeze. "It feels like much longer, doesn't it? Much longer than a month."

"Yeah, it does, _honey_." Clint manages.

"I'm happy for you." Laura says, and she genuinely seems it. "You deserve to have every happiness and I'm glad you found that in a partner."

"Oh. Well, we're not putting any labels on it, y'know. It's not," he trails off, and immediately regrets it. Beside him, Pietro tenses, but he doesn't pull away. He's still smiling pleasantly at Laura, but it looks strained, and there's a stiffness to his shoulders that wasn't there before, and Clint hates himself for being the cause of it. "I don't know why I said that. We-"

Pietro makes an odd noise. "I should be going, but it was so lovely to meet you." he interrupts. He's walking away, in the direction of the dusty red truck siting in the middle of the parking lot, before Clint can even blink.

His side immediately feels cold, in Pietro's absence.

"Shit." he says, rubbing a hand over his face, visibly torn between explaining to Laura that _yes, we are together_ _and madly in love, believe it or not_ , and chasing after his very angry, very quick, boyfriend.

"I shouldn't have said anything, Clint. I'm sorry. It's not my business." Laura says, genuinely apologetic, even though this isn't even a little bit her fault. "I just assumed it was serious because, well, it's you." she stops herself, shaking her head slowly. "That came out wrong. Really wrong. I'm sorry."

"No, no. We're serious." Clint shrugs. "Most of the time. I don't know why I said that. Maybe because it's _you_ , and it's me. Us. We haven't seen each other in so long, y'know, and I guess I just felt weird about it."

"Don't." Laura says, and seems to hesitate. "Clint, listen, I've been meaning to come around. Not just to pick up the rest of my stuff, but to talk. There are things we need to discuss. Things I should've sat down and spoken to you about awhile ago."

He frowns, still watching Pietro. It becomes clear to Clint then that his boyfriend isn't walking towards the truck, but around it and _beyond_ it. To where, Clint doesn't know. He watches as Pietro's retreating figure grows smaller and smaller, and is only drawn away and back to Laura when she touches his arm.

"I'll call you." she says.

"What things?"

Laura squeezes his forearm lightly. "Don't worry about it. Okay? It can wait." she says, and starts to walk away, her hand dropping from Clint's arm. "I'll call you. We'll work out a time for me to come around and we'll talk."

Now, that makes Clint worry - he's been trying to decide on a time with Laura for weeks, so she can finally come around, collect the rest of her stuff and Clint can be done with it. This way, the farmhouse can start to feel more like _his_ instead of something that was once theirs. But she was always too busy, with her new friends and her shiny new apartment, and he understood that. Clint tried to be reasonable, and patient, even though he was itching to move on, struggling to find closure when there was so much of her left behind.

"Are you sick?" Clint asks quietly. He can't even stomach the thought. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

Of all things to do, Laura laughs. Not at him, and definitely not with him, because he's too busy beating himself up over how he's screwed things up with Pietro to even crack a smile. She laughs, again, easily. It's such a nice sound. Laura sounds happy and Clint's glad for it, because that's all he ever wanted for her. "No, I'm not sick. Everything is fine, Clint. Really."

"Is it your mom? Joyce isn't unwell, is she?"

"No one's sick. Really, we're good."

He almost misses it.

If he were less observant (less acutely, painfully aware of all the little things) then the way Laura emphasized the word _we_ might've slipped his attention. The way her hand grazes against her stomach. A feather-light touch, out of habit, probably. Not done knowingly. It's not obvious, not in the long, floral maxi dress that she's wearing; pale and loose fitting, blowing gently with the breeze. She's radiant. And it hits Clint out of nowhere.

 _Oh._

"Yeah." Clint says, sucking in a sharp breath. He kicks at the pavement idly. "Right, of course. It's you, I mean, you always had it together. You were always-" Clint trails off, letting so much go unspoken, and maybe that's for the best.

"Always a bit of a scatterbrain, but I'm doing good."

Clint nods along mutely in agreement. He doesn't trust himself enough to speak right now, not when it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of his lungs, like he's been punched right in the gut and can't breathe properly. It wouldn't do any good to let that show, though, so he tacks on a smile that he hopes is convincing enough.

"I'll come around, okay?" Laura tucks a stray strand of dark, curly hair back behind her ear, and smiles. "And we'll talk. You should go," she nods over his shoulder. "Go after him."

 _Always_ , he thinks, because this is Laura's happiness and her chance at a good life, and Pietro just might be Clint's shot at that. And sure, he's screwed up too much of their relationship already, but if Pietro can forgive him for all of that, then there's hope that he can forgive Clint for this.

There's a look in her eyes that Clint doesn't recognize, at first. It isn't until she kisses him on the cheek and walks away that Clint finally sees it for what it is: pity.

Pity, because Laura hasn't realized that he _knows_. And it's obvious, now, when he thinks about it. She's glowing and he's happy for her, he is, but that doesn't make it hurt any less, and it doesn't stop Clint from needing a moment to compose himself, before he walks away, too, sparing one last glance back over his shoulder at Laura and the life he almost had - the life that wouldn't suit him anymore, the life that he doesn't want.

Nostalgia is a bitch, Clint thinks, and it can't be trusted.

* * *

Pietro's sulking, and slumped over in the passenger seat, when Clint climbs up into the truck and slams the door shut behind him. The radio is on some channel that Clint doesn't recognize, blasting music that doesn't even have any words, just an annoying upbeat tempo with a side of screaming.

"There you are." Clint says, exhaling a sigh - a breath he didn't even realize he was holding in.

"Where else would I be?"

His feet are up on the dash, crossed over at the ankles, and when Clint tries to talk to him, tries to get more than a sullen "where else would I be?", he doesn't answer and won't even look in Clint's direction. Instead, he studies his nails and chews at the blunt edges, and bobs along to the tune on the radio like he doesn't have a care in the world.

That makes one of them.

After, after the song ends, after Pietro's finished studying his nails, he glances over at Clint - who's just sitting there, staring off blankly, with his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. Pietro drags his feet off the dashboard and sits up properly, like something has actually caught his attention. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Clint. Pulling off his cap (no, not his, _Pietro's_ ) Clint throws it somewhere into the backseat.

It occurs to Clint that this is the part where he should say something. This is the part where he explains himself, but the words catch in his throat, and he can't say a thing. Which isn't that much of a surprise, really, he's never been all that good with words.

He should tell Pietro that he's sorry, that he told Laura the truth, that he shouldn't have choked up and it didn't mean anything. There are _so_ many things that Clint should do, but he can't bring himself to - and if that doesn't sum up his life, well, then nothing else will. He should do it, but doesn't know if he can, so he won't.

"I get it." Clint says, finally. "You're pissed, so go ahead, be pissed off. Tell me I'm a jerk. It won't be the first time I've heard it. Go on, you won't hurt my feelings."

"Why did you say that to her? About the label."

"I don't know."

And that's not good enough, he knows, it's not even close, but Pietro doesn't seem to mind all that much. "You seem upset. Did something happen?"

There's a feather-light touch on Clint's shoulder that he nearly shakes off. "Nope, everything's peachy." he says, pulling the keys out of his pocket. He jams them into the ignition, twists, and listens as the engine splutters to life.

Eventually, Pietro drops his hand away and slumps back down in the passenger seat. He buckles his belt in and stares out the window, eyes glued to the traffic lights and the trees, and the grassy fields full of grazing cows. It doesn't take long for him to realize that they aren't headed for Clint's farmhouse.

"Where are we going?"

"Home, I guess."

"Not yours," Pietro says. "Mine. You're taking me home?"

Clint nods in affirmation. When they pull up at a red light, he reaches over and browses through several different stations: country music, static, jazz, more country music, a weather report. He flicks the radio off in irritation and they sit in silence, waiting for the red light to go green. It doesn't last though, and Pietro quickly grows bored or annoyed, or _both_ , and speaks up.

"But I don't want to go home." he says belatedly, fidgeting with the sleeves of his windbreaker and stretching them so they cover his hands entirely, showing only the very tips of his slender fingers. "I thought we were going to go back to your house."

"We were, but the plan changed."

"Since when?"

The light goes green. Clint hits down on the gas, maybe a little too hard. "Since now." he says. "I'm not really in the mood for, well, whatever. For anything. So, I'm just going to drop you home and call it a day."

And maybe it's Clint's imagination, but it almost sounds like Pietro's hurt. He's always been good at covering it up, by deflecting with jokes or changing the subject, which is something Clint understands only too well. "Why do you want me to go?" Pietro asks, frowning. "This is because of Laura, isn't? First, you won't introduce me. And now, you can't wait to be rid of me."

"I'm not getting into this right now."

"You miss her." he sniffs.

Clint considers that. "Not in the way you're implying." he says, and flicks on his indicator before taking a sharp left turn. "But yeah, I miss her."

The road ahead is mostly empty, apart from a couple of large trucks, and a red tractor. Clint overtakes a yellow Volkswagen Beetle and considers flicking the radio back on, just to fill the silence. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently.

"Are you embarrassed by me?" Pietro asks quietly, almost like it pains him to say it. "Is that why you couldn't tell her about us?"

"Don't."

"But you couldn't say it. That we were together. That we _are_." he says. He cranks down the window, and angles his body towards it. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sneaks a glimpse of him. Pietro cuts a more solemn figure than he did before, when he was all bright, toothy smiles, and wandering hands. "You say one thing, then do something else entirely. I'm not so sure you want to be with me."

Clint's grip on the steering wheel tightens. His knuckles are bone-white. "Don't say that. You know how I feel about you. I want us to be together, so don't act like I don't."

"I wasn't the one acting like that. You were."

"Don't say that."

Pietro just looks at him. It's all there, so much hurt and disbelief and frustration, in that single look. Clint doesn't realize how badly his hands are shaking until he's forced to pull over to the side of the road.

He hates how quiet it is.

He hates it.

The light pitter-patter of raindrops on the rooftop is the only sound to be heard. It's so different to how they were in Baskin-Robbins that it makes Clint's heart ache. He shuts the engine off, leaves the keys to dangle from the ignition, and drops his head onto the steering wheel.

"I just need to sit, for a moment." Clint says, eyes sliding shut. "And I need you to not say anything like _that_. Do you think you can do that? I need to sit here. Please. Just shut up. I'm asking as nicely as I can."

Apparently, he can't do that. The very mention of Laura's name has Clint unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door, poised to leave when Pietro's hand flies out and catches Clint's by the wrist. Pietro's less angry, now, and more tentative. _Worried_. He gently pries Clint's fingers off of the door handle.

The angle must be awkward for him, half stretched over towards Clint, and still strapped into his seat. With the hand that isn't curled around Clint's wrist, he unbuckles his own seatbelt.

"You don't have to tell people." Pietro decides, after a long pause. "Not if it upsets you."

"It doesn't."

"But if it does, and you need to keep it a secret, then I will understand. I don't hide it, but it is different for me, I think. If you need to, then I will learn to live with it. If you ask me to." he says, and Clint doesn't know what to say to that, because even though Pietro was (and probably still is) hurt and confused, he's willing to try. "I would do anything, but only if you ask."

He's being so reasonable, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, that it startles Clint and he doesn't really know what to say, at first. At all. "That's not it." he says.

"Then what is it?"

"Laura knows." Clint looks down at where Pietro's hand is resting on his arm, his fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, like _this_ is the only way he can convince Clint to stay. "She knows that I go both ways. All ways. Whatever. She knew and she was fine with it. I'm fine with it, too. It's one of those things I've always known about myself."

"Oh." Pietro says, frowning. "Is it me?"

"Is what you?'

"Am I the problem? Too young, too gay, too-"

Clint doesn't want to hear the rest of that sentence. He turns and gently takes Pietro's face in his hands. "You think _you're_ the problem? I don't even know what to say to that, kid, there's nothing wrong with you. Not one thing. C'mon, you know you're damn near perfect."

That makes Pietro smile, at least.

It's something.

Slowly, _so_ slowly, Pietro takes one of Clint's hands and weaves their fingers together. It's a simple gesture. A display of commitment, maybe. Of unity. Or maybe he just wants to feel closer to Clint, closer than _this_. He lifts their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Clint's knuckles lightly.

Clint drops his hand away from Pietro's face and looks away, out of the window and at the rain dribbling down the water-speckled glass. He's not sure how long they stay like that, on the side of the road with the engine shut off and the keys dangling from the ignition, swaying with every movement of Clint's knee as he bounces his leg up and down.

It probably feels longer than it actually is. Minutes, even though it feels like hours. Pietro doesn't push him (well, he doesn't push him any further than he already has) and Clint's grateful for it.

He waits a little bit longer, until he actually trusts himself to _not_ chicken out, and then he speaks.

"Gotta get this over with, huh? Like a Band-Aid. Maybe if I just rip it off in one go, it'll hurt less." he says. He's talking more to himself than to Pietro, really, but the younger man still nods along politely. "I was worried about Laura. Not about what she thought, but about _her._ I thought if she saw us, if she knew how quickly it happened, that it'd upset her."

"I don't understand. Why would this upset her?"

Clint shrugs weakly. He knows that's not good enough, he does, but he still can't find the right words. Seconds tick by before he answers. "I didn't put much effort in towards the end." Clint admits. "Yeah. You wouldn't have liked me much back then. I was selfish. And with you, I'm better than I was. Different. And I don't know why, but I am, and I didn't want her thinking she was the problem."

Even if it sounds weak and half hearted, it's still true. He didn't give everything he had, back then, and maybe he still isn't now, but he's trying. That's more than he ever did with Laura. He just wanted to spare her that. Didn't want to flaunt his newfound happiness in her face, not when he gave her so little of it.

"You weren't so bad." Pietro says, and makes a sharp _tsk_ noise against his teeth. "The man I know, the man I love, could not have been so bad. I would still like you."

He slumps down lower in his seat, deflated, and drops his head into his hands. "I was a jerk."

Pietro's fingers ghost over the back of his neck. "Why?"

"I don't know." Clint says, a lie. For some reason, it takes twice as long to get all of the words out. He doesn't need to look up to know that Pietro's staring at him; he can feel the weight of his gaze, can feel how much he wants an answer.

Not just shitty half truths, weak little lies and long winded explanations, but the truth. Plain and simple, and Clint's not sure if he can give him that. At least, not right now and not like this. Clint breathes in deeply, sits up and fixes on the biggest smile that he can muster.

"Y'know, I'm way too sober to do this." he decides. "Can we go somewhere? To talk. Doesn't matter where. I just need to get out of this car and I need a drink." or, several.

* * *

It's probably not Clint's best idea.

But then again, he never claimed to be the guy that had all the great ideas. Which is how they end up in some seedy little dive bar on the outskirts of town at 1:30PM on a Thursday. There's an American flag pinned up on display, high up on the wall, next to a row of stuffed animal heads and flashing neon signs.

Seedy, tacky, but empty.

Mostly empty, except for half a dozen or so scattered regulars. He's never been here before, because drinking in the middle of the afternoon isn't really Clint's thing, not anymore, but it's easy enough to guess that the men hunched over at the bar in various states of intoxication are pretty regular here.

Clint steps inside first. It's quiet, apart from the sound of glasses clinking, the soft murmur of idle chatter, and the country music pouring out of the jukebox in the far corner of the room. He gives the bar another once-over: there's a pool table, a row of plush red booths, and a blinking neon-blue sign that says _GONE FISHING._ Christmas lights are strung up along the walls and the ceiling, and dangle from the roof like tiny, multi-colored chandeliers.

The tacky décor isn't enough to send Clint out the door. It rarely is; whiskey is whiskey, and he just wants to have a drink, not a good time. Décor and music don't matter all that much. The company, however, kind of does, which is why Clint's glad to be here with Pietro, one of the good ones.

He walks up to the bar, leans against it, wrinkling his nose a little when his hand comes away sticky. A woman, who introduces herself as Darlene, greets them with a smile. Clint plops down onto a barstool and orders a whiskey sour, while Pietro inquires about the cocktail menu. It doesn't take him nearly as long as expected to make up his mind, and he settles on a pink daiquiri. Maybe it's because he can sense Clint's restlessness. Maybe he's also itching for a drink, and Clint can't hold that against him, not when it's been a hell of a day.

Clint pulls out his wallet and slides a credit card across the counter and towards the bartender. "We'll be over in a booth."

"Keep the card open?" Darlene asks, tapping away on the cash register with her long, bright pink, acrylic nails. He's barely listening, sure, but Clint hears that loud and clear: drink now, worry about the tab later.

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay, honey, I'll be right over with your drinks."

He slides into a booth and is surprised that when Pietro joins him, he sits down opposite him. Not next to, or even near, but opposite. Frowning, Clint picks idly at a bowl of stale cashews and tries not to be bothered by the weight of Pietro's gaze as it settles on him. Clint only looks up when Pietro pointedly clears his throat, drawing his gaze upward.

"So," Pietro says, smacking his lips together loudly. "Do you come here often?"

"Are you hitting on me?" he frowns. "Also, you're the one that recommended this place. So, no, I'm not a regular."

Pietro rolls his eyes. _Hard_. He doesn't say yes or no, but instead works on unzipping his windbreaker. He pulls his arms out of it, slowly, one at a time, then drops it onto the empty space beside him. The plain V-neck shirt suits him. It really brings out his eyes and makes them even bluer, because that's somehow possible. It's a good look. Clint doesn't say that though, and instead feigns deep interest in the various pictures and photographs nailed to the wall above the booth.

"Would it bother you?"

It takes a moment for Clint to realize what he's asking.

"Don't be stupid." he says, tearing his eyes away from a sepia-toned photograph of miners. Pietro's fidgeting with a cardboard coaster, fiddling with the frayed edges. He runs it over the dark wooden table and taps it against the sticky surface in time with the beat of the jukebox.

"Answer the question, old man."

"You think it bothers me."

"I want to know what you think, not what you think I think." Pietro answers, and seems immediately puzzled by his own little tongue-twister. He shakes his head and sinks down lower into the booth.

Clint frowns and wonders when his life became like that one episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

"What?"

"Answer it." he stubbornly insists. "Would it bother you?"

"Jesus. What kind of question is that? Why would it bother me if you, my own boyfriend, hit on me? Do you realize how stupid that sounds?" he asks, too fast, all at once. And probably a little too loudly, as well, since it draws a couple of inquisitive stares their way.

 _Great._

Clint makes a point of lowering his voice. "Don't. Please, don't start this up again. I thought you understood."

"Hm. You said you wanted to go somewhere and talk. I said yes." Pietro's mouth twists up at the corners sharply. "But now that we're here, you won't talk. You won't really look at me either, like I've done something to upset you."

And there it is.

The one thing that Clint was trying to avoid doing: hurting Pietro. It's the last thing he wanted. Not when Pietro's been so great, if only a little impatient at times and Clint cant' fault him for that. He stuck around, even when it got rough and downright weird. Clint admires that. Loves him for it.

"I forget how young you are."

"What? Why does that matter?" Pietro asks, immediately defensive. "I don't see why it does, since that has nothing to do with this."

There are a lot of things that Clint forgets. Like, this is Pietro's first serious relationship. He forgets that Pietro's not just younger, but young. And that doesn't necessarily mean that he's super inexperienced, it just means that they've both had very different life experiences.

Clint reaches across the table and covers Pietro's hand with his own.

It's not just to comfort Pietro, but to comfort himself, too. There's something almost desperate about it, like this is the only way he can keep himself steady and grounded and _here_. He's always been so flighty.

"Babe, there's stuff I wanna talk about with you, but it's not about you. You think I went quiet because of you," he begins, stopping only to clear his throat. "You think I was embarrassed to tell Laura about us because of you, but it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me."

"You're sure?"

"I am." Clint hesitates. "Look, I'm not so good at this, so I need you to go easy on me. Think you can do that?"

Pietro's mouth pulls up at the corners. "Perhaps."

"Just for an hour. Two hours, tops. Gimme a break. Don't make me talk about any of this, not yet. And then, once the hour's up, I'll pour my heart out."

Pietro visibly softens, at that, and gives Clint's hand a gentle squeeze, pulling back only when Darlene arrives with their drinks. One whiskey sour, that she sets down in front of Clint, and a bright pink daiquiri for Pietro. Now, alcohol will make this easier, Clint thinks. Hopes. One hour, two whiskey sours and three shots of vodka later, and he's already feeling loads better. Pietro's only on his second daiquiri, and he sips at it prettily while Clint slams back his forth shot of vodka.

"I think you are the one that needs to take it easy." Pietro suggests, over the rim of his cocktail. "You should slow down."

"Or maybe you should lighten up." Clint says. "If I wanted a chaperon, kid, I woulda asked your sister to tag along instead. Quit riding my ass, yeah? And go easy on me. Go easy on yourself. Have another drink."

"Riding your ass," Pietro says, deadpan.

He dissolves into a fit of almost hysterical laughter, the kind where it gets difficult to breathe, to get any actual words out. And he even slaps his hand down on the table, because apparently it's just that funny, and unusual to him. Clint can't fight the smile that stretches across his face.

"It's an expression."

"No, no, I think you are hitting on me."

Clint scoffs, but his cheeks feel warmer all the same, and _dammit_ , he's a grown man. Well, he is most of the time, when he feels up to the job. "Yeah. That's my go-to pick up line." he says dryly. "You caught me."

"I knew it."

"Pretty bad, huh?"

"Terrible."

Pietro's holding onto his cocktail glass by the narrow stem. He swirls the contents around slowly, before raising his glass in mock salute to Clint - who, unfairly, doesn't have a drink in his hand. Which is partially (okay, mostly, 100%) his fault, since he knocked back all of his drinks pretty early on. Pietro lifts the glass to his lips and tips the rest of the daiquiri back.

His tongue is ridiculously pink as he sticks it out at Clint.

"Oh, nice. That's real mature."

"I thought of one." Pietro happily announces. "A pick up line. Do you want to hear it?"

Now, this should be interesting. Clint's already slouched low in the booth, relaxed and pleasantly buzzed, but he braces himself for the pick up line all the same. Because, knowing Pietro, it's going to be terrible. Very, very bad, and not at all funny, because Pietro's charming and pretty nice to look at, but his jokes suck. Oh, how they suck.

In all honesty, Clint's aren't that much better, most of the time. But he's not really in the mood to be honest. He feels laughter bubbling up in his chest, long before Pietro even gets the line out. The key to a joke is delivery - it's all about how you tell it, and he's pretty good at that.

Pietro's pale hair is tinged red and blue under the glow of the multi-colored Christmas lights that dangle above the booth, and Clint finds that he's momentarily distracted - by the sharp curve of Pietro's mouth, the narrow slope of his nose, the broad line of his shoulders and the way his eyes seem to sparkle when he laughs. _Beautiful_. And very distracting. Clint's so swept up in that thought, so caught up in the moment, that he accidentally, absentmindedly, picks a cashew up out of the bowl and pops it into his mouth.

The look on Pietro's face is nothing short of horrified.

It doesn't taste good. Doesn't taste like a cashew, either, which makes it so much worse. Clint realizes his mistake and spits it out. And, unfortunately, it lands right back in the bowl. Clint gestures for another round of drinks, just so he can taste something else other than salty, stale, not-actually-a-cashew, cashew. This time, Clint orders something stronger (a scotch, while Pietro goes in for a third daiquiri) because he needs to get that taste out of his mouth.

"You still wanna try out that pick up line? See if you get lucky?" Clint asks, one arm caught in the sleeve of his fleece jacket. He peels it off slowly, drops it onto the seat beside him and rolls his neck.

Clint's mid-roll when Pietro tries to put the moves on him.

And, of course, Clint doesn't realize that _that's_ what he's doing. Not at first, anyway. But to be fair, he's way more familiar with pick up lines from his mid- twenties, and not Pietro's. It's a whole different game now and actually kind of frightening.

"Do you know what this shirt is made of?"

 _Polyester,_ Clint thinks. He hadn't really thought about it all that much. Either that, or cotton. He settles with the former, then quickly blurts out the latter, just to cover his bases. "Polyester? Or is it cotton?"

For a moment, it looks like Pietro's seriously considering climbing out of the booth and leaving Clint all alone. He lifts a hand to his face, like he's embarrassed for Clint, but there's a fond look on his face. Even if he's shaking with laughter, at Clint's expense, it's still sweet that he looks fond about it.

"No, old man. Not cotton or polyester. Maybe it will help to feel it," he says, dropping his hands into his lap. He slides around the U-shaped booth, fixes on the most serious face he can muster, and fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt.

Pietro's knees bump against Clint's thigh underneath the table, and Clint can't figure out whether it's accidental or deliberate.

"Go on," he encourages. "Take it between your fingers."

"O-kay." Clint hesitates, but reaches out all the same and rubs the pristine white fabric of Pietro's shirt between his forefinger and thumb, and _yep_ , he's pretty sure that's cotton, even if his boyfriend insists otherwise. "What's it made of then?"

"Boyfriend material."

Clint really should've seen that coming. After all, he dated Tony Stark, of all people, who churned out witty one-liners (that weren't actually all that witty) and crappy pick up lines on an hourly basis. He wants to blame the alcohol for making his brain all fuzzy and muddled, wants to blame it on the weird day that they've had, because the it's really not _that_ funny. At the very least, Clint should've anticipated where that line was headed. Still, Pietro's pleased with himself and that's something.

"I can't believe I didn't realize it 'til now. You said it." Clint murmurs, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. It's still mostly quiet, inside the bar, apart from the jukebox in the corner and the sound of cue balls smacking loudly against each other.

"Said what? The pick up line?" he asks, frowning. "Is there something wrong with your hearing, old man?"

"No, not that. I'm not talking about that."

Pietro shifts impatiently. "Then what?"

"You said that you love me. In the car, you said it."

His face says it all, really. Still, he warmly adds, "Well, that would be because I _do_." then, because he's still very much a little shit, he kicks Clint's ankle underneath the table and adds, "Even if sometimes you are a very grumpy old man, I love you."

Clint blames the warm, tingly feeling in his veins on the alcohol (and also on the fact that he's never been this in love before). He slides closer, then, until he's got one arm up on the booth, draped over Pietro's shoulders, and the younger man is tucked up against his side.

"This," Pietro begins, faltering. "Is this fine? The touching, and the kissing, we don't have to do any of this in public."

"You're the only thing I'm sure about." Clint says, lifting a hand to Pietro's face. He brushes the hair back off of his forehead and smiles. "Besides, you're my _partner_ , right? I should be able to hold your hand, if I wanna. Kiss you. Put my arm around you. I should be able to do that, if that's alright with you."

There's a hand on his sternum, not pushing him back or pulling him closer, just lingering. Resting. Pietro smiles as he says, "Before we do any of that, cowboy, I would like to talk about something you said earlier."

"I said a lot of things." Clint reminds. Yeah, like either of them need reminding. "What's on your mind?"

"Mm. How did you put it? Well, you said I was 'damn near perfection', so I am wondering why am I only _near_ ," he's visibly pleased with himself, and nearly on the verge of laughter. "Why only near?"

Clint laughs.

It's a good feeling.

"Really need me to boost your ego, kid? It's big enough. C'mon, you know you're perfect. You don't need me to tell you that." he says, and that seems to satisfy Pietro. For now, at least. "Wanna dance?"

"You dance?" Pietro asks, eying Clint off warily.

"Only when I'm drunk."

Which is something he happens to be _right_ now. Drunk. Not tripping over himself, or slurring his words, or making an ass out of himself (not yet, there's still plenty of time) but a pleasant, buzzed, relaxed kind of drunk. The kind that comes easily after years of drinking and building up a tolerance to the harder stuff.

Darlene drops their drinks off, then, as if on cue, and Clint couldn't be happier. He takes a sip of his scotch, sets it down on the table, then has Pietro's cocktail glass shoved in his face. Bright pink, just like Pietro's lips and tongue and teeth.

"Here, try this." Pietro demands. "Try it."

So he does, and doesn't actually mind it all that much. The liquor gives Clint that bit of extra courage to climb out of the booth and pull Pietro along with him, towards the small, open space that probably serves as a dance floor - there are no chairs or tables, here, and it's right by the jukebox. The floor is checkered and shiny, and, thankfully, _not_ slippery as Clint walks across it, his hand tangled up with Pietro's.

"Is this the part where you teach me how to square dance, cowboy?" Pietro asks, only a little slurred. And sure, Clint's not looking at him as he leads him across the floor, but he doesn't have to turn around to know that he's smirking.

He can hear it in his voice.

"I'm not loving that nickname." Clint admits.

"What would you prefer, old man?"

Clint turns and faces Pietro. He's still holding onto his hand tightly. "Y'know, I think I'd prefer it if you called me cowboy. Makes me feel, well, less old. For starters."

The music is an issue. It's not really something that Clint knows, or listens to, let alone something that he dances to (Not that he dances all that much. Well, not in public, anyway). Before he can walk over and change it, the song ends and something softer, and gentler, slowly fills the air. A song that Clint recognizes immediately. Familiar, and soothing, like a lullaby.

He pulls Pietro towards him and sets a hand on his hip.

It goes on and on, and Clint finds that he doesn't mind. He's happy, like this, with arms wrapped around necks and waists, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together; the angle, surprisingly, isn't awkward, even though Pietro is the taller of the two (if only _just_ ) and has to bow his head ever so slightly. Pietro kisses Clint on the temple and keeps dancing, swaying gently from side to side, back and forth, in time with not just the music, but each other.

 _Baby, I've been here before,  
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor,  
_ _you know, I used to live alone before I knew you_

* * *

 **A/N:** The song is 'Hallelujah' by Jeff Buckley.

also, I just wanted to address a certain thing that was hinted at in this chapter - yes, Laura's pregnant, but it's with her new partner and not with Clint. Soap drama stuff isn't really my thing. I love a good cliffhanger, but it'd be really uncool to make anyone agonize over that. there are reasons why he's acting all ~weird~ but it's not because it's his kid, or because he wants a kid with her. his relationship with Pietro is even more solid after the events of this chapter, so there's no reason to worry.


	31. Chapter 31

Clint | _Wanda_ | **Steve**

A/N: I would advise checking this chapter out on ao3 due to the pictures / stickers that I couldn't share with you guys on here.

* * *

THURS 11 JUNE

[9:14PM]:

Wwandna

[9:17PM]

*wafna we need 2 lifts

[9:19PM]:

am drink

[9:20PM]:

wadna

 _[9:23PM]:_

 _Where are you?_

[9:25PM]:

the fshing hole

[9:29PM]:

evrtbody likes you wands

 _[9:40PM]:_

 _I thought you were going out for ice-cream, not drinks._

 _[9:40PM]:_

 _Has my brother been drinking?_

[9:42PM]:

yup

 _[9:43PM]:_

 _How much?_

[9:45PM]:

enugh

* * *

FRI 12 JUNE

The first thing that Clint notices, after he slowly regains consciousness, is that this is definitely _not_ his bedroom.

It's kind of hard to not notice something that huge, even with a hangover. The second thing that he notices is, well, Pietro. He can't see Pietro's face to actually confirm that it _is_ him, since he's flat on his stomach with his head buried underneath a fluffy purple pillow. But he's not wearing a shirt, which means that his scar is on display.

Long, narrow, winding; he's never seen one quite like it.

Clint rolls over onto his side, barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch Pietro's sun-kissed skin. Normally, he would, but there's something so peaceful about watching Pietro sleep, something fragile that Clint doesn't want to unsettle and disturb (or, even worse: destroy).

He remembers the scar - remembers the memory that comes with it, always, the way that Pietro had peeled his shirt up and over his head, baring his back to the camera during their Skype video call, _just_ to make Clint feel a little better about his own scars. He remembers the way it felt bumpy and uneven underneath his fingertip. Clint's eyes dip lower, to the dark bruises scattered across his back, to the minor cuts and scrapes that are mostly healed and scabbing over nicely. It takes a really long moment for it to settle in, for Clint to realize just where he is.

 _The Maximoff apartment building._ And, more specifically, in Pietro's bed. He's slept here before, not all that long ago, so Clint blames his initial disorientation and confusion on too much alcohol and too little coffee.

On the nights that Clint stayed over, he liked being here, sprawled out or curled up in Pietro's bed. He liked the way Pietro kicked him under the table at breakfast, and how Wanda gave him a little extra coffee just because.

Now, though, he doesn't like anything.

The world is too bright and way too loud, and Clint drapes an arm over his eyes dramatically, sinking down into the mattress. It's comfy and warm, and Pietro's right there, so close, so undisturbed and within arms reach. Clint resigns himself to the fact that he's never going to get out of this bed. Ever.

But some asshole is honking their horn relentlessly out on the street below, and Clint's tempted to storm over to the window (which is already ajar, the curtains thrown open, allowing for noise and light to travel easily throughout the small bedroom) and tell them exactly where to shove their horn. In the end, he doesn't do that. Mostly because he needs coffee, first, before he can commit to anything.

To top it all off, Pietro's snoring.

 _Loudly._

And sure, it's muffled by the pillow on top of his head, but it's still loud and only mildly cute. Exhaling a sigh, Clint drops the arm away from his face, and gives the bedroom another once-over. It's actually peaceful, once the asshole stops honking. Clint's eyes adjust to the glaringly bright light that seems to have softened since he woke up. The dark, star-speckled curtains sway gently with the breeze, and Pietro's snoring isn't actually _that_ annoying.

Of course it isn't, because it's Pietro, which means that pretty much everything he does is cute and ridiculous and endearing. Clint sighs.

This time, for a different reason.

This time, because he feels happy to be able to wake up next to someone he cares about - someone that he loves, someone that loves him back. He leans across the bed and kisses Pietro's left shoulder, before returning to his side.

Coffee is the first thing on Clint's list: a big ass cup of hot, freshly brewed coffee. Followed by a shower, then maybe some food. Aspirin is also good, so he adds it to the list.

Clint's still in the middle of sorting out his priorities when he glances down at himself and realizes that, like Pietro, he's also shirtless. And, upon much closer inspection, he learns that he's also not wearing pants. Or socks, but that doesn't seem to matter so much in the grand scheme of things. His feet are kind of cold- _priorities_ , Clint reminds himself, it's all about priorities.

 _Weird_. He's fairly certain that he'd remember taking all of his clothes off and climbing into bed with Pietro. But he doesn't remember that; doesn't remember all that much of anything, like why they decided to come back here. Or _how_ they managed that, when they were both more than a little drunk. Clint pulls the sheets back up to his waist and starts plotting out an escape route, partially because he has to pee but also because he can hear Wanda in the kitchen, which can only mean one thing: coffee.

Carefully, _so_ carefully, he shifts and tries to sit up, and he almost gets one leg over the side of the bed when Pietro moves and makes a groan that sounds more zombie-like than human, causing Clint to freeze up.

He keeps groaning, for what feels like an eternity, before his head pops out from underneath the fluffy pillow, and Clint actually has to clamp a hand down over his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Pietro's hair is spiky and ridiculous and sticking up in every which way direction. It brings tears to Clint's eyes. He drops his hand away from his mouth and reaches out to touch the ends of Pietro's spiked up, fluffy hair.

"Oh, kid. It's like someone took a balloon to the top of your head. What happened to you?" Clint asks, even though he already knows, and is kind of to blame.

Entirely to blame, actually, since it was his idea to go for drinks, to keep drinking and _drinking_. To dance, to make out in a graffiti-stained bathroom in a seedy dive bar, to do a round of shots. Pietro winces and flops over onto his back, and gives Clint a look that makes it pretty clear that he _also_ blames him for this.

"Mm. I was just about to ask you the same thing." Pietro murmurs, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "You are missing an eyebrow, cowboy."

The smile on Clint's face falls off. It won't be the first time he's woken up sans eyebrows, but his 35th birthday party is still going ahead tonight and he doesn't really want to show up _without_ them. Clint lifts both hands to his face and checks that both brows are intact - they are. Clint sighs, full of relief, then punches Pietro in the arm. This is apparently how they say good morning now.

"Asshole. That's real nice."

"Jebeš ovo." Pietro moans. "Osjećam se kao govno."

"Yeah, me too." Clint says, and takes a stab in the dark that whatever Pietro's sighing about has to do with feeling like shit. "I don't even know how we got here. Did we get your sister to drive us here? She'll be happy about that."

"Clint," he begins, still flat on his back and blinking up at the ceiling. "Do you think that we, _you know_."

There's a light knock on the door before Clint can answer. He swings both legs over the side of the mattress and brings one of the bedsheets along with him, keeping it knotted around his waist loosely as he slowly makes his way towards the door - it's Wanda, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a look of wicked delight plastered across her face. She looks _way_ too happy, way too early.

He reaches for the coffee. It isn't for him, apparently, and Clint hisses in pain when she smacks his hand away.

"Ouch." he says. "That was kinda uncalled for. It hurt."

"I leave for work in half an hour." Wanda tells him.

Clint blinks at her. He's not really sure what to make of that, or why she's telling him. Maybe she needs a lift, or wants to have words with him before she leaves, which is something that Clint's not really feeling. Throwing a brief glance back over his shoulder, he smirks when he sees Pietro sprawled out in bed with the sheets pulled up over his head. _Gone_. He's burrowed in. Clint shakes his head and turns back to face Wanda.

"O-kay. You need a ride?" he asks, scratching at his jaw.

"No, I don't, but I think that you will." she says, drumming her fingers against the side of the ceramic mug. Her rings (silver, gold, and pretty gemstones) clink loudly against the side. "Your truck is still at that bar. The Fishing Hole. If you want to walk all of those miles, all by yourself, then be my guest. If not, we leave in half an hour."

"Oh. Alright, I'll be ready." Clint nods, adjusting the flimsy sheet around his waist. It slips, a little, but Clint manages to fix it and refasten it around his hips, narrowly avoiding what could've been a very awkward moment. When he looks back up, Wanda's still sipping on her coffee with her eyebrows raised expectantly. "Uh-thanks. For the lift. For driving us back here. Yeah. Was that it? Or was-"

"Don't make me late. Be ready."

"Yes, ma'am."

The corners of her mouth twitch up in amusement, like she's fighting a smile. "I made breakfast. Piet, wake up. I cooked pancakes." she says, and swats Clint's hand away a second time when he reaches for her coffee. "This is my cup of coffee. _Mine._ "

"But we're family," he argues. "Aren't we? C'mon, kid. I'm dying here. What's mine is yours, and all that. Mi casa es tu casa?"

Wanda laughs, and calls him cute, but still walks away, down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. Shrugging, Clint shuts the door behind her, and keeps one hand on the sheet around his waist. _Worth a shot_. Even though she didn't hand her coffee over, Clint made her laugh, which feels weirdly good. Clint slumps against the closed door and, seconds later, when Pietro's head pops out from the sheets like a turtle, he wishes that he had a camera.

Sure, Pietro still looks cute, but Clint's _so_ close to bursting into a fit of laughter. He wants to remember this and pads around the room barefoot in search of his iPhone. The red, nearly empty, battery icon appears on the lockscreen when Clint tries to turn the phone on. _Damn._ He drops it back down onto the nightstand.

"Guess I'll just have to commit it to memory, Einstein."

"You didn't answer my question. About us."

"What?" Clint frowns. "Gimme a minute to wake up before you start getting all," he makes a vague gesture with one hand. "Tricksy. Don't get tricksy on me, kid. Or, y'know, the other one. Wordsy. I need some coffee in me before I start doing the word thing."

"I think you are naked under that sheet." Pietro says, hair askew, with a lopsided grin plastered across his face. "Do you want to come here so I can find out?"

Clint nearly chokes. He starts picking articles of clothing up off the floor, starting with a pair of jeans. Somehow, he manages to shimmy into the pants without dropping the sheet. Once he's zipped up and buckled in, Clint lets the bedsheet fall to the floor. Now, he only needs a shirt, that preferably belongs to him, but he's not picky.

"See, now, _that's_ tricksy."

"Is it?"

"You heard your sister. I leave in half an hour."

"So?" Pietro asks, waggling his eyebrows. "Don't you want to find out? I want to. Come over here, old man, so that I can say good morning. Properly. Come here."

"And I would also want that, if your sister wasn't like, right down the hall." Clint says, crouching down to pick up a t-shirt. Faded, black, with a red logo on the front. Clint eyes it off suspiciously, rubbing the fabric between his fingers, before he stands and announces, "I'm taking this. And I've got time for coffee and breakfast, and maybe another cup of coffee, but not this. Whatever it is you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything." Pietro argues, all wide-eyed and innocent. "Not yet."

He sits up and stretches, drawing his arms up above his head. There's a ripple of movement, muscles shifting and joints popping. He throws the sheets back and swings his legs over the side of the bed, clad in a pair of bright red socks and dark Calvin Klein trunks, and not much else. It's a good look.

Pietro slinks up to him - there's no better word for it, really, he slinks forward like a cat on the prowl - and Clint has to remind himself, over and over, that Wanda's right down the hall. But then Pietro's suddenly all up in his space, a hand on his jaw and a hand on his waist, with his big blue eyes and dumb smile, and his fingers ghosting over the underside of Clint's jaw.

It makes him forget all about Wanda being right down the hall. That is until she shouts out "twenty four minutes", making Clint pull away from Pietro. He starts hurriedly shoving his arms through the sleeves of the t-shirt Pietro is so kindly letting him borrow.

"Cowboy," Pietro grins, taking a deliberate step forward. "I can think of plenty of things to do in twenty four minutes, or less."

"Yeah, I bet you can." Clint huffs out a laugh. "But it's not a good idea. I need coffee and aspirin, and you need to put some clothes on, because as much as I appreciate all of this," he gestures to Pietro's bare, toned torso. "I don't think your sister will enjoy it in the same way I will. Throw on a robe, or some pants."

"We can dance again," he suggests, with an almost coy look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders. "If you want to."

"You liked that?"

"Mhm." Pietro nods. "You weren't so bad."

"Not so bad? You're really knocking me off my feet with all these compliments, kid." Clint says. He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles, just to have something to do with his hands. "Y'know, I think you might be the only person I know that thinks I'm a good dancer."

Pietro pulls a face, something skeptical yet amused. "Did I say good? I don't remember saying that."

"Oh, so that's how it is?"

"Mm. I said that you were not so bad." he reminds, giving Clint's shoulder a light shove backwards. "But it shouldn't matter what I think, or what other people think. Only what you think. That's all that matters in the end, yes?"

"I guess you're right." Clint says. "Raincheck on the dance. I'm gonna go grab a cup of coffee. And some pancakes before you get the chance to eat all of them.

"Better start running, old man."

So he does.

Pietro doesn't follow - not right away, anyway - and when he finally emerges out of his bedroom, he's wearing a fluffy pink robe, leaving his legs bare. The cord is pulled tight, but even so, it's obvious that he hasn't bothered to put any clothes on. _Of course._ Because only Pietro would take Clint's advice so literally. He stops by the sink, first, pausing to peck Wanda on the cheek. She's scrubbing at a pan and some dishes, with up to her elbows submerged in soapy dishwater.

"Dobro jutro, sestro." Pietro says warmly, then makes his way over to the fridge. He yanks the door open, pulls out a carton of orange juice, and proceeds to drink straight from the box. Once he's finished, he kicks the door shut behind him, then drops the empty carton into a nearby wastebin.

"Kako si spavao prošle noći?" Wanda asks.

"Jako dobro."

Clint chews down on some strawberries and pancakes, and tries to be a little more discreet with his staring. And his eavesdropping. But it's tough, with the three of them squeezed into such close quarters. He catches Pietro's eye, and he's got a mischievous look on his face as he folds his arms across his chest and leans back against a counter near his sister.

"Nice robe." Clint scoffs.

It actually _is_ nice, but Clint's trying to be sarcastic. Key word: trying. That's a little hard to achieve when the jab seems to go right over Pietro's head. He gives himself a once-over, looking down at the pale robe, in all its glorious fluffiness and pinkness, before fixing Clint with a broad smile.

"Yes, it is."

"A kako je bilo sinoć?" Wanda throws a brief glance over her shoulder, at Clint, at where he's nursing a hangover and clutching desperately at a mug of coffee. "Brinem za tebe."

"We had fun, didn't we?" Pietro asks, winking at Clint. "The cowboy here taught me how to dance."

"Not a cowboy."

Pietro fixes his attention on Wanda, who finishes up with the dishes and dries her hands off on a nearby cloth. "I have that big party tonight, remember? The one for Clint's birthday," he says, and there's almost a nervousness to it, a hesitancy, that Clint's not used to seeing.

"I remember." she nods. "What time will you be home?"

"This, well, it-" Pietro hesitates, biting down on his lower lip. "I was going to stay over at Clint's for the weekend. To celebrate."

Clint shoves a fresh strawberry into his mouth, and then another, _another_. So far, he's been lucky, and hasn't felt as if he's overstayed his welcome, or like he's intruding on what's supposed to be a private moment. Now, though, he can't help but feel out of place, can't help but notice the tension in Wanda's shoulders and the sudden shift in the air.

"When were you going to tell me about this?" she asks, an unreadable expression flickering across her face, gone so fast it's barely there at all. A flash of concern, maybe, or frustration. "For how long? Will you stay all weekend?"

"I don't know. We haven't decided yet." Pietro scowls, his face all scrunched up. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. How can you ask that?"

"Doesn't have to be all weekend, not if it's gonna cause a whole thing." Clint says, taking a swig of coffee. He starts rolling a pancake up to look like a crepe when both Pietro and Wanda fix him with a _look_. "Whatever. Ignore me. You guys get back to working it out and I'll be sitting over here, eating breakfast. Silently."

Wanda narrows her eyes, and her lips draw together into a thin, displeased line. Not quite a smile, but not a frown either. "We will talk about this later, Pietro. After I-" she stops, leaving the rest unspoken: after I finish work, after I drop your eavesdropping, pancake rolling, boyfriend off at his car so he can go back to his real home. "I'm going to finish getting ready."

"But there's nothing to discuss," Pietro calls out after her.

There's no point, not when Wanda's already halfway down the corridor. He drops into the chair next to Clint's with a drawn out, exaggerated groan, and starts picking idly at his breakfast: fluffy, scrumptious pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup and a light dusting of icing sugar.

"That was fun." Clint says, smiling wryly.

Part of him gets it, and completely understands Wanda's hesitation, her need to wrap Pietro up in a blanket and keep him safe and sound, and away from all the terrible things in the world. Part of him gets it, but another part knows that it's not always possible to keep the ones you love safe at all times. Clint slides his coffee - which is, surprisingly, still warm - towards Pietro, who takes a large gulp, and makes a pleased noise as he sets the nearly empty mug back down on the table.

"Why are you rolling them up?" Pietro asks, nodding in the direction of Clint's plate. "You drowned them in syrup. I don't think there is any left for me. And where are all the strawberries? Did you eat them?"

Clint pauses, with a plump strawberry between forefinger and thumb, inches away from his mouth. "No, not all of them. Just most of them. But I left you some syrup-see, it's already on there-and it's sweet. Like me." he says, and when he barely gets a smile in response, Clint shoves his plate of pancakes aside and takes one of Pietro's hands in his own. "Talk to me. I'm not so good at this, but I want to be, so talk."

"I don't know what I should do." he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck with the hand that isn't tangled up with Clint's own.

He looks young. Young and vulnerable, and visibly torn up over doing what he wants and what he thinks is best.

"About what?" Clint asks gently.

"This weekend," he says. "I want to spend time with you and stay over, but I don't want to upset her."

"She's your sister. It's her job to worry about you, just like you worry about her." Clint says, gentle, patient. He gives Pietro's hand a light squeeze. "Why don't I talk to her? You can leave it to me and I'll take care of it."

Clint tries not to be too offended by the incredulous look on Pietro's face, the way his eyebrows jump up into his hairline. "You? _You_ want to talk to her about this?"

"Yeah, me. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing."

"So? Let me do this. For you."

Pietro chews on the inside of his mouth while he briefly, _so_ briefly, considers that. "Fine," he says. "But don't make it worse. Sometimes, you do that. You start talking, then you don't know how to stop, and you make it worse."

"Good to know." Clint says. "I'll try to _not_ do that this time."

This close, with their fingers tangled together, and Pietro's bare knees knocking up against Clint's thigh underneath the table, and the way they keep passing Clint's cup back and forth, sharing cold coffee and strawberries and syrup-sticky kisses, it's hard for Clint to imagine ever wanting to be somewhere else. There's a warmth in Pietro's eyes; it's there in his wicked smile, too, and the dimples around his mouth, and Clint's heart skips a couple beats, he's sure of it. Clint thought he was over this, over feeling giddy, like a lovesick teenager. He thought his days of butterflies and nerves were _long_ gone, but his heart skips again and again when Pietro crooks a finger under his chin and urges him closer.

* * *

The car ride is awkward, to say the least.

Clint's surprised he managed to even get inside the car. And not because it's small (a classic Volkswagen Beetle, with faded blue paint peeling off the bumper, and barely enough room for the two of them, he can't even imagine how someone as bulky as Pietro fits inside) but because he couldn't seem to pull himself away from Pietro. It's getting harder and harder to leave, Clint discovers, as the Beetle pulls away from the weathered brick building and out onto the road.

"You don't want him around me." he says, less than thirty seconds after pulling away from the curb. "I guess that I get that, because yeah, sure, I'm not exactly the guy that has all his shit together. I screwed up and maybe I'll keep going down that path, but I'm trying to be better. That has to count for something."

"It isn't you - or, _that_." Wanda sighs.

End of discussion, apparently. She flicks on the radio, to fill the silence. At least she has better taste in music than her brother does, but Clint's still not at all familiar with the folksy tune that fills the air.

Clint fidgets.

He does that, every now and then, when he's uncertain or apprehensive. Clint drums his fingers against his knee, the outside of his thigh, then against the dashboard, in time with the banjo solo pouring out of the radio, but it seems to annoy Wanda, so he knocks it off immediately and slumps down further in the passenger seat.

"Sorry." he says, then quickly adds: "Except I'm not. Your brother's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Yeah, he's a pain in my ass, but I'm not easy to deal with. We make it work. Or, we want to. We're trying to."

"I thought you weren't going to get involved."

"Yeah, well, I am."

"Why?" Wanda asks, a beat later. The car slows down at a set of lights. A couple of kids sprint across the road. She drums her ring-clad fingers against the steering wheel, in a fit of impatience.

Or, maybe she's just like Clint and she fidgets when she doesn't know what to do with herself. Sunlight catches on the various gemstones, all of different sizes and shapes and textures. The sleek gold and silver bands around her wrists glisten in the bright, warm morning light. She lifts a hand to her face and tucks a strand of hair back.

"This was something I wanted to talk to Pietro about, not you." she says, before he can answer. "It's between us."

"He's beating himself up over doing what's good for him, and what's best for you." Clint admits. He turns to look at her, then, dressed in all black; jeans, t-shirt, jacket, except for her only slightly faded, red converse shoes. "So I said that I'd talk to you. I think you're upset about something else, not the party. Not about Pietro crashing at mine."

Wanda bites down on her bottom lip so hard that Clint's surprised it doesn't bleed. "I worry for Pietro. After what happened-they hurt him, it still shows. I don't know what I would do if it happened again."

There's a slight shake to Wanda's voice, a tremor to her hands, but she's quick to be rid of it. Wanda dabs at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, then quickly hits down on the gas when the stoplight turns green. It's 9:51AM, according to the small, rectangular shaped clock near the radio.

"You don't have to do that, y'know."

"Do what?" she asks. "I haven't done anything."

"It wasn't your fault, Wanda. Don't beat yourself up over something you had no control over." Clint says. "Blame the people that did it, because it's not on you. All you've ever done was love him, sweetheart. It's not your fault. It'll take time before you believe that, but one day, you will."

Wanda's smile is tentative, at first, but something in her expression softens. "My brother, he will be safe with you, won't he." she says, and it's not a question. Clint gets the feeling that Wanda doesn't trust a lot of people, with the exception of her brother.

And now maybe him.

"He will." Clint nods. "Always."

"Good." she sniffs. "You will text me, won't you?"

"Of course. We're not dropping off grid, or whatever." he assures. "It's a farmhouse. Not a cabin in the woods, so you're welcome to swing by for dinner."

There are a couple of abrupt stops and sudden turns, but it's mostly smooth sailing (well, _mostly_ , because Wanda's fast and a little on the reckless side, like most people her age). She goes on a long, harrowing rant about what it's like to work in the hospitality industry; people are shitty and impatient, and _so_ ungrateful. It makes Clint glad that he never tried out the whole bartending thing, and he tells Wanda as much over a shared cigarette.

"Now, tell me all about your hot date tonight." Clint says, cranking down a window to let some of the smoke out - and some of the fresh air in. Wind whips against his face, but it's _nice_. Sobering, almost. Clint accepts the cigarette from Wanda and draws back on it sharply, holds it, then releases a puff of smoke, before passing it over.

"His name is Viszh."

* * *

"Aw, coffee. _No_."

Clint sighs. It's freshly brewed, warm, delicious - and all down the front of his shirt. He's in the kitchen, sipping on coffee, reading over the newspaper. After he got dropped off by Wanda all those hours ago, Clint shaved, showered and napped, in that exact order.

Now, he's trying to feel a little less like he's thirty-five by sculling caffeine and eating Froot Loops. In the middle of the day.

He grabs a dishcloth from one of the drawers near the fridge, and wipes down, then decides there's no point because he can't salvage the t-shirt (he's wearing a white V-neck, with a plaid button up on top, because _what else,_ really). Clint strips down, right there, in the kitchen, and leaves his V-neck to air dry on the back of a nearby chair. He buttons his long-sleeved plaid up, then drops back into the chair and picks up where he left off.

Most of the coffee is still inside the cup, which is good, it means that Clint doesn't have to get up to make a new one. He flicks through several more pages that are only slightly soggy with coffee, stopping only when his phone lights up with a new Snapchat notification: the little ghost appears in the top left corner of the screen.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_hoppy birthday cowbay_

 _I forgot to say it before_

 **luckybarton:**

Hoppy?

Uh thanks, I guess. Much appreciated.

You get to work ok, sweetheart? xx

 ** _witchy_wanda:_ **

_its me?_

 **luckybarton:**

hi me

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_y are u like this_

 **luckybarton:**

Like what?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_its me_

 _your boyfriend_

 **luckybarton:**

Might have to be a little more specific. I have a couple of those...

Are you the cute one, the angry one, or the smartass?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_ha ha_

 _that never gets old_

 _unlike u_

 **luckybarton:**

That was good. You really got me.

I guess you're the smartass.

Why do you have Wanda's phone?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_she left it at home._

 _it started ringing during my nap_ _and it woke me so here i am_

 **luckybarton:**

It's 1pm and you're napping? That's so unlike you. I also napped, but that's ok because I'm old.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_what are u doing now im bored_

 **luckybarton:**

I thought you were Me?

Hi Bored

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_[image: a pink heart with the words " **CAN YOU NOT"** written in the middle]_

 **luckybarton:**

I'm drinking coffee. What's left of it.

Had an accident. Spilt it on myself..

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_look it u_

 _[image: an avocado with the word " **BASIC"** written in pink]_

 **luckybarton:**

I'm an avocado

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_wrong one_

 **luckybarton:**

Here we go.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_i meant this one_

 _[image: a sloth holding an ice-cream, with " **can't live without you** " written in pink]_

 **luckybarton:**

Am I the sloth or the ice-cream

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_the ice cream_

 _obviously_

 **luckybarton:**

Obviously, yeah. Dumb question.

It's cute.

 _[image: a sunflower, smiling]_

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_awwwwww_

 _look at you playing nice_

 **luckybarton:**

Hey, I'm always nice. Like 96% of the time.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_its so cute ha hah_

 _my sunflower_

 **luckybarton:**

Oh shut up

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_you shut up_

 **luckybarton:**

How old are you? Like 5?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_shut up_

 **luckybarton:**

Make me

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_hah !_

 _you know i could_

 **luckybarton:**

You could, what? Shut up?

Hahah

I doubt that, kid. You've never shut up for a second in your entire life. Not one second. But hey, I'm not complaining. I like the sound of your voice.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_dw_

 _what are u doing? im still bored_

 _and i miss u_

 **luckybarton:**

I'm eating cereal

And don't sweat it, babe. I'll see you tonight.

That's if you're still interested in going?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_i wouldnt miss it babe_

 **luckybarton:**

Cool. It wouldn't be the same without you.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_so silly_

 _ofc i will be there_

 **luckybarton:**

Glad to hear it, Speedy. We're good, yeah?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_why wouldnt we b_

 **luckybarton:**

I hate to bring it up, but yesterday. Things happened. We ran into Laura and I screwed up. Again.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_u left out what we did after_

 _drinking & dancing_

 _i had fun with u_

A red square appears in the chat suddenly, just under Wanda's username. Clint scoops up a spoonful of multi-colored, soggy Froot Loops, and shovels it into his mouth. He hesitates about clicking on the _Tap to view_ option next to the square, eying it off cautiously, because it's Pietro and he seems to be full of jokes today.

 **luckybarton:**

What's this?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_open it and find out old man_

 **luckybarton:**

Always so bossy.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_opeeeeen ittt_

It's - _drumroll_ \- a kitten.

But not just any kitten. It's the infamous, adorable, and kind of deadly, Snowball. Grinning, Clint replays the image and screenshots it. And sure, he's never really been a cat person, but Snowball's probably the exception. [the Snapchat image is close up shot of Snowball, with " **bby girl** " written in the caption]

 **luckybarton:**

She's growing up fast. :-)

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_she is_

 _how did the talk with wanda go? ?_

 **luckybarton:**

I didn't screw up, if that's what you're thinking.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_yes that is what im thinking_

 **luckybarton:**

We actually had a really good talk and she seemed better about you staying the weekend. At least, I think she did. Kinda hard to tell. Anyway, we talked a lot, abut work and Viszh. She'll drop you around my place after she clocks off at work, then we'll go from there to the bar.

Or the hotel.

Or wherever the hell it is.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_vish?_ _whats a vish_

 _and thx for reminding me to pack_

 **luckybarton:**

The guy she's seeing?

It's not serious yet, but she thinks it could be.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_what guy_

 **luckybarton:**

The guy she obviously hasn't told you about yet. Oops.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_oops? is he nice what does he seem like_

 _i knew she had a date but didnt knw it was serious_

 _what is he like?_

 **luckybarton:**

I didn't meet the guy.

From what she told me, he seems good. Good for her.

And maybe it's time she had somebody like that? You two have been inseparable for years. Maybe it's time you were a little more separated. That way, I get you all to myself, and she gets to be a regular 20 y/o and enjoy herself for the night. It's a win-win situation.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_is it? so what do i win_

 **luckybarton:**

Me, obviously.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_obviously_

 _i get you all to myself?_

 **luckybarton:**

If you play your cards right, yeah.

You feel good about tonight?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_ehh_

 **luckybarton:**

Nervous?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_to meet your friends, yes_

 **luckybarton:**

Don't be. They're good people.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_even your tony?_

 **luckybarton:**

Tony belongs to himself and no one else. He's not mine. Never was. We had something and it ended, but that's all there is to it. You're important to me in ways that he never was. Don't worry about him.

Worry about me.

I don't know what to wear

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_leather jacket_

 _no plaid_

 **luckybarton:**

Damn.

But I don't own anything else except plaid, remember?

Guess I'll just have to borrow something of yours.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_no plaid_

 **luckybarton:**

Fine. What're you wearing?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_wouldnt u like to know_

 **luckybarton:**

You're still wearing the pink robe, aren't you?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_right now? yes i am_

 _but not tonight_ _i want to look good for my bf_

 **luckybarton:**

You look good all the time

3

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_i know :-) so do u_

Clint sets his phone aside. He's gone for sixty seconds, if that. Probably even less. He gets up, fills up Lucky's bowl, grabs a glass of orange juice, and when he returns, his iPhone screen is lit up with notifications. And, of course, their Snapchat conversation is full of stickers. Cats, dog, mice. All sorts of creatures. A walrus, a giant pineapple, and a lots of pizza. He blinks down at the screen, scrolls through the stickers, and selects the perfect one.

A walrus. A walrus wearing a party hat, surrounded by confetti. **TGIF** is written in thick, multi-colored text.

 _ **witchy_wanda:**_

 _? I send like 20 and u send 1_

 _[image: a crown with the words **"I'M THE BEST"** written inside of it]_

 **luckybarton:**

Yeah, yeah. You're the best. I know.

Hate to be a nag, but don't you need to pack? And I have to get some stuff done around here before it gets too late.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_i wanted to show u something first_

 **luckybarton:**

What? All your favorite stickers?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_yes but also something else_

The picture isn't of Snowball.

Pietro, still in his robe, reclined on a couch. It's a video. He looks-beautiful. All bronze and golden, and beautiful. It suits him. The timer is set to ten seconds and is rapidly ticking down, down. Clint wishes it would last for just that little bit longer.

(filters are like masks, Pietro had once told him)

A crown of golden butterflies sits atop Pietro's head. The filter makes everything gold. Small dots flicker all across the screen, floating around Pietro in a way that reminds Clint of fireflies. Pietro doesn't say a word, he just smiles and winks at the camera.

There's no golden tint on the next image, only a filter that gives Pietro a pair of dog ears and a matching nose. A series of selfies follows shortly after, of Pietro in various hats and poses, of Pietro in an actual jewelled crown and then one made of flowers, of a filter that turns everything B&W and gives Pietro red lips and winged eyeliner. A video pops up in the conversation: it's Pietro, with his face squished up with Snowball.

Pietro peppers the fluffy kitten with kisses, then he gently makes her wave with one of her paws, before he glances up and looks directly into the camera, a wide grin intact, and says, "Sretan rođendan, ljubavi".

The timer runs down to 0.

 _Sretan rođendan, ljubavi._ Clint plays the words over and over in his head. He doesn't know what it means, but his heart swells up all the same.

 **luckybarton:**

I can't imagine life without you. What it'd be like.

What I'd be like..

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_u never have to find out 3_

 _im not going anywhere_

 **luckybarton:**

Good. I'll see you in a couple hours :-)

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_yes u will!_

 _oh and 1 last thing_

 **luckybarton:**

Sure. What's up?

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_no plaid_

 **luckybarton:**

Gotcha. I can only wear plaid, nothing else.

 _ **witchy_wanda:** _

_[image: a pink heart with the words " **CAN YOU NOT"** written in the middle]_

 _[image: a sunflower, frowning]_

 **luckybarton:**

See you tonight, sunflower.

* * *

 **[4:13PM]:**

 **Hey, Birthday Boy. You need a lift tonight?**

[4:15PM]:

I'm good, Steve. Thanks.

 **[4:19PM]:**

 **You sure? It's really no trouble.**

[4:21PM]:

Really, I'm good. We're good.

[4:23PM]:

Actually there is something you can do for me.

 **[4:26PM]:**

 **You name it, pal.**

[4:29PM]:

Can you forward the address of this place?

[4:32PM]:

I don't know where to go. No one told me. And sure, I get that it's all supposed to be a "surprise" and I don't get to know anything, because Tony's in charge. But there's a surprise and then there's not showing up to your own party because you don't know where it's being held.

 **[4:35PM]:**

 **No problem. Will forward it now.**

 **[4:37PM]:**

.. **..**

 **[4:39PM]:**

 **I just have one question.**

[4:40PM]:

Shoot.

 **[4:42PM]:**

 **How do I "forward"**

[4:42PM]:

.. **..**

[4:45PM]:

Never thought I'd say this, but go get Barnes. He'll know what to do.

* * *

Clint tries on six different shirts before settling on the first one that he tried on: a white V-neck, _nothing special._ He pulls a black leather jacket on over that. It's a slim fit, cut close to his body, with intricate red stitching along both shoulders and a high, unbuttoned collar. It goes well with the jeans that he picked out (black, a little faded and worn, but nice).

There's something fluttery in his chest. _Nerves_.

His phone chimes with a new alert on the far side of the room, where it's plugged into a socket and charging. Clint pauses by a narrow, wall-mounted mirror and runs a hand through his hair, hoping to smooth out the spiky ends. He splashed on some cologne earlier - a gift from Pepper for his birthday last year - but he skipped gel, which might've been a mistake.

A second text from Wanda lights up the lockscreen.

 _[5:53PM]:_

 _b there in 5_

 _[5:55PM]:_

 _it is her fault we are late_

[5:57PM]:

That's alright. I'm still getting ready, so take your time.

 _[5:59PM]:_

 _still? ? we have to leave at 6_

[6:01PM]:

Hey, I'm ready. You're the one that's running late.

[6:03PM]:

And don't worry, I ordered the Uber for 6:30.

 _[6:03PM]:_

 _see u soon_

[6:05PM]:

It's the big farmhouse. Can't miss it.

 _[6:07PM]:_

 _there are a lot of those around here_

[6:09PM]:

Think of it as a lucky dip..

Clint leaves his phone to charge, and pokes around in the walk-in wardrobe just off his bedroom. He pulls on a pair of brown combat boots, crouching down low to lace them up. Once he's all done, dressed up and ready to go, Clint gathers up his keys, wallet and iPhone, stuffing them into various pockets, before finally heading downstairs.

With everything locked up, with Lucky fed and dozing in the kitchen, and nothing to do but kill time, Clint hangs around in the hallway near the front door. Minutes later, the sound of a blaring horn startles Clint and draws him out onto the porch. Wanda's blue Beetle pulls up outside, wheels crunching loudly against the gravel.

But the car doesn't stop - it only slows down enough for Pietro to climb out. The Beetle does a sharp U-turn, then disappears back down the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Clint juts a hip out and leans against the porch railing.

Pietro's all pale hair and long, _long_ limbs.

He cuts a completely different image, now, to earlier when he was lazing around in a robe; he's dressed in a pair of ripped jeans, a black t-shirt, and a brown bomber jacket with black sleeves and a matching black collar. The fabric of his jacket looks soft, like velvet. Clint's suddenly struck with the urge to touch it - to touch him. With a Puma gym bag in his right hand (which looks like it's bursting with clothes) Pietro glances over the farmhouse, with a look of wonder on his face, like he can't quite believe he's _here_.

Sure, it's not much to look at, but Clint's proud of it all the same. Piles of chopped wood are scattered all over the yard, near a picnic table that Clint built when he and Laura first moved in. There's a track that disappears around the side of the house and eventually joins up to a path in the woods. A small shed, a barn full of unfinished projects, and, lastly, Clint's dusty pickup truck sitting in the middle of it all.

By the time Pietro reaches the porch, taking the stairs one at a time, Clint's itching to know what he thinks.

Pietro whistles, low and appreciative. "Look at _you_."

"Nobody's gonna be looking at me, kid." he says, laughing dryly, and it comes out way more self-deprecating than intended. "You look good. More than good. Everyone will be looking at you. Can't say I blame them."

"And where will I be looking? Right at you."

Just as Pietro reaches the top of the stairs, Clint pushes himself off the railing and meets him halfway, pulling him into a close embrace, his arms wrapping tight around the younger man's waist. Pietro drops his bag and winds his arms around Clint's neck, making that fluttery feeling in Clint's chest increase tenfold.

* * *

Translations:

 **Jebeš ovo:** Fuck this.  
 **Osjećam se kao govno:** I feel like shit.  
 **Dobro jutro, sestro:** Good morning, Sister.  
 **Kako si spavao prošle noći?:** How did you sleep last night?  
 **Jako dobro:** Very good.  
 **A kako je bilo sinoć?:** And how was last night?  
 **Brinem za tebe:** I worry about you.  
 **Sretan rođendan, ljubavi:** Happy birthday, love.


	32. Chapter 32

Clint | **Wanda**

* * *

FRI 12 JUNE

"Nope."

Pietro rolls his eyes, _of course he does._ Apparently, they've both got a flair for the dramatic. Pietro grabs the front of Clint's leather jacket by the collar and tugs him forward, as if that's enough to get him inside. He might as well be trying to put a cat into a tub full of water, because Clint's not going.

He digs his heels in.

"This is your party," Pietro says, like either of them need a reminder. "All of your friends are waiting inside. You can't not go."

"Oh, yeah? Yeah? Watch me do that." he says. "I'm gonna go wait in the car, but go ahead, enjoy yourself."

It's not Clint's greatest moment, but he's suffering from a little pre-party anxiety. It doesn't bode well, knowing that Tony's responsible for whatever lurks behind that door. Still, he knows this isn't a fight he's going to win, not when Pietro's looking at him like that, visibly amused yet also frustrated. Clint can't blame him for that. After all, they've been debating this out on the sidewalk for what feels like an eternity.

"We're going in," a tug on Clint's jacket. Playful, almost. It's enough to make Clint stumble forward, but not enough to get him inside the building. "Now."

"But I don't wanna."

"Too bad."

"You're hot when you get annoyed." he says, smirking. "I never noticed that before. Did you know you get this cute little vein in the middle of your forehead." reaching out, he taps the spot on Pietro's forehead. "Right there. It's really cute."

There isn't actually anything there. Of course there isn't, because Clint's a tease and Pietro's young, gorgeous, with an enviably smooth and flawless complexion.

Still. Clint's always enjoyed winding Pietro up.

"Don't do that."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you're trying to sweet talk your way out of this, but it's not going to work." Pietro says, mouth curving up at the corners. The cracks in his stern façade are already starting to show. Sometimes, all it takes is a smile before he bursts out laughing. "It won't."

"Wait-you think I'm sweet talking you, by pointing out a vein on your forehead?" Clint deadpans, then bops Pietro on the tip of his nose, just to see the way his face gets all scrunched up and cute. "Oh, yeah. I'm a real charmer."

"Enough." Pietro says, then swats Clint's hand away, but latches onto his right arm by the wrist. "We will go inside and you will try to have fun, just this once."

"And we'll resume this conversation later."

"We're going inside now."

"Sure we are." Clint winks.

The grip around his wrists tightens. Clint expects an eye roll, or for Pietro to stomp his feet in a fit of frustration. It would be just like Pietro to do either of those things, or _both_ , but he doesn't. He gives Clint's hand a soft squeeze and says, "I only want you to have fun. This is a big deal, yes? It's your 50th."

Clint should've seen that coming a mile away. "Hey, here's a thought, you go wait in the car and I go get really drunk. Like, really drunk. You only turn 50 once, right? And who knows if I'll be around for the big five-one next year."

"And _that_ is why you need to enjoy tonight."

"Smartass."

"Come on."

Somehow, it's everything that Clint feared it would be - bright, tacky yet somehow extravagant, and full of faces that Clint doesn't really recognize. Maybe that's why he manages to slip inside unnoticed, his hand gripping tight onto Pietro's. It's like a Las Vegas nightclub, but with Tony Stark's personal touch. Definitely not Gatsby-esque, with more of a resemblance to a music video. There's a grand staircase, spiralling up towards a second level, and Clint doesn't even want to know what's up there. No, he's still trying to get his head around the scene set out before him downstairs.

"This is not what I was expecting," Pietro says, with a hint of awe in his voice. "It's so,"

He trails off, apparently at a loss for words.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Pietro's way more at ease, here, it seems. He gives Clint's hand a gentle tug, coercing him forward. The busy crowd of writhing, sweaty, dancing bodies parts easily enough as Pietro leads the way forward. To where, Clint doesn't know, but he allows himself to be pulled along regardless, because he trusts Pietro. Because he'd feel even more like a fish out of water right now if it wasn't for Pietro and his soft, patient smiles, and his words of encouragement that Clint somehow manages to hear over the music.

The bass is so loud that Clint can feel it vibrating through his bones. There are strobe lights, expensive wines on ice, slender champagne glasses, bottles of Belvedere vodka, glistening chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling.

A clash of club and class.

Clint spots Steve, first. All cozied up next to Bucky with an arm draped casually around his shoulders. The two are talking to a massive, god-sized man with a (quite frankly, _awesome_ ) bun. Unfortunately, it's Bucky who notices him first, his eyes snagging on Pietro first before landing on Clint. And his response-well, it makes Clint uneasy.

Because it's Bucky.

He nudges Steve in the side and nods in Clint's direction, a large grin spreading across his face that spells trouble. They're standing off to the side, next to several plush lounges. Clint waves at Steve, who's sweet and genuinely happy to see him. Bucky, though. Bucky's a jerk.

Somewhere along the way, Clint seeks out Pietro's hand and clutches at it, almost a little desperately. Man Bun is distracted by a small brunette woman that Clint vaguely remembers. She leads him away and over towards the edge of the dancefloor, where Clint notices Darcy - finally, a familiar face, and someone that Clint actually likes - and some skinny guy with a red beanie pulled down over his ears. Clint's not sure if Darcy and her friend are dancing badly on purpose, or if it's supposed to be ironic.

Either way, it's pretty entertaining to watch.

"These are your friends," Pietro says. He must recognize Steve, because it sounds like he's not really asking Clint so much as stating it. "Is that the pest of a boyfriend? And who was the big one?"

"Yeah, that's Bucky. He's got this condition," Clint begins. They're still a couple of seconds away, but his voice drops to a whisper and he leans in a little closer. "Nobody likes to really talk about it, but it's pretty serious. Yeah. He's got Jackass Syndrome. And I don't know who the big one is."

"Barton!"

"Here we go."

"Didn't even recognize you." Bucky says, still grinning. He visibly looks Clint over. "How come you never dress up for any of us? Huh? We only get Clint the Lumberjack. Nice to see you wearing something other than plaid."

"Clint," Steve says warmly, then pulls Clint in for a loose hug, squeezing tight before letting go. Clint wasn't much of a hugger before Steve Rogers and his warm embraces. "Good to see you."

"Who's this?" Bucky asks, eying Pietro off.

Steve gives him an exasperated look that says: _you know exactly who this is. I told you who this is, which was a bad idea because you have that look on your face. The look you get right before you start all the trouble. My bad, Clint._

"My boyfriend, Pietro. This is my boyfriend." he says. He frowns when Steve gives him a weird look, the kind that makes it feel like Clint's being the weird one. Maybe he is. He's not always great in social situations. "Pietro. He's my boy-"

"Hey, it's nice to meet you." Steve gently interrupts, kindly leaving out the part about how they've already met, under very different circumstances. Unpleasant ones.

But there's nothing unpleasant about the smile that Steve fixes Pietro with, warm and friendly. He's good, at this. At dealing with people, in a way that Clint never was. That's something he's still figuring out.

Steve gestures over towards the bar.

"Lemme buy you a drink, Pietro."

 _But it's my birthday_ , Clint opens his mouth to say.

"It's an open bar." Bucky reminds. As soon as Pietro's out of earshot, he whistles and says, "Jesus, Barton. And you thought I broke my face. What the hell happened to him? Did he fall outta a tree or something? Was he up on that roof with you when you took a tumble? Jeez."

Clint's never wanted to punch Bucky more than he wants to in that moment. "Were you born an insensitive jackass or was that something you developed over time? It's like a talent. Like wine, y'know, it just becomes more and more refined with age."

"You'd know all about age."

"Good one."

"So? What happened?"

"He didn't fall. I thought maybe Steve told you about it? I guess it's just grown-up stuff, which you wouldn't know a thing about." he says, sparing a furtive glance around this part of the building.

A couple more faces that he knows, thank god. Like, that one guy that Clint worked that job with about six months ago. Lang, maybe. No sign of Tony or Natasha. Yet. Clint spots Pepper, though, which means that Tony can't be too far. Those two are more or less attached at the hip, and even when they're not, Tony's not really the type to fade into the background. He's all about huge statements and grand entrances.

The room has a warm purple glow to it, the high ceiling decorated with pale sheets that form a canopy, of sorts, and delicate chandeliers that sway in time with the music, swinging back and forth precariously.

"It looks bad." Bucky comments, slurping loudly on his straw, even though the glass is clearly empty. He's one of those, the kind that don't stop sipping on a drink even when there's barely a drop left. "His face, I mean. Not all of this." he makes a wide gesture with his hand. "Stark sure knows how to throw a party. Your boyfriend get into trouble or something?"

 _Or something._

"Yeah." Clint nods. "So, maybe don't say anything stupid. Just for tonight. And then tomorrow, you can go back to being stupid. I don't care what you do or say after tonight. How's that sound?"

Bucky considers that. He pretends to spit on his hand (at least, Clint hopes it's pretend) and offers it out for Clint to shake. Narrowing his eyes, Clint stares at Bucky's hand, swats it away, then makes a beeline for the bar. He's not surprised to find Bucky trailing along behind him, like a stray he just can't get rid of. Great. Of course he'd end up stranded with only Bucky Barnes for company.

"Got you a couple presents." he announces.

"Yeah. Like what?"

"A walking stick, to keep you steady."

It's strange, and kind of unnerving, that Clint already feels more at ease because of Bucky and his smartass ways. This, it's how they've always been, and probably always will be. And it's nice to have something normal, after the ups and downs of the last couple weeks, the uncertainty and just plain weirdness.

"You know where to shove that stick, Barnes." Clint says, laughing. He's intercepted by Sam on his way to the bar, who dives right into some elaborate, animated retelling of a story involving Bucky and a Flaming Doctor Pepper.

Clint decides that he's going to need several drinks in him before they start reminiscing about all the stupid things Bucky's done over the years, not to mention all the stupid things he somehow managed to talk Clint into doing with him. There's a list. He's hardly the first to be talked into doing something reckless by Bucky and he won't be the last. Sam is easily distracted and ends up throwing an arm around Sharon's shoulders and recapping the story to her instead.

Propping an elbow up against the bar top, Clint orders a cosmopolitan for himself, while Bucky gets a piña colada. He gestures for Clint to look over at where Steve and Pietro appear to be immersed in deep conversation at the opposite end of the bar, wedged in between already very drunk fellow party guests, but they seem happy. There's a lot of hand gestures and pats on shoulders, accompanied by smiles and laughter. Clint's mouth curves up at the corners, pleased that Pietro's already found someone he gets along so well with. The bartender sets a cosmopolitan down in front of Clint.

"Are you two, y'know. Is it getting serious?" Bucky asks, as he slurps on his piña colada. The cocktail is brandished with a pineapple wedge, and a bright pink umbrella that Bucky immediately starts playing with, twirling it between his long fingers.

"Yeah."

"Good for you, man."

Clint eyes off his own drink before taking a very, very big sip. The cosmopolitan is sweet and citrusy, with a hit of lime juice. "He is." nodding, Clint swirls the contents of his cocktail around, gripping the glass by the stem. "He's a lot of things, but yeah, he's good."

"You need somebody good for a change."

 _Well, you won't find anyone better than him_ , Clint thinks. But he doesn't say that. After all, not everything needs to be said. So, instead, he allows for a rare moment of silence, a lull in the conversation. It isn't common for Bucky to not be in the middle of saying, or doing, something stupid.

Yet, they stand there, shoulder-to-shoulder, for at least a minute, in companionable silence. Clint's struck, then, by just how different his life would be without Pietro in it. Bucky gazes at Steve dreamily for twice as long, until he snaps out of it, clears his throat and nudges Clint in the side. Hard enough that Clint squawks indignantly.

Bucky's bony elbow gets him right in the ribs. Twice.

"He's also way outta your league." Bucky says.

There it is. Clint shrugs and sips on his cosmo. "You're probably right about that. But hey, maybe you could stop being a jackass for five seconds? It's my birthday, man. Gimme a break. And get your elbows out of my ribs."

With a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, Bucky sets his piña colada down on the bar bench top, then holds his hands up in defeat. "Fine. Guess you got a point. You want me to play nice? If that's what you want, I'll do it. I can be nice." he says, followed by a hearty slap on the back. "You got it, buddy. Anything for you."

"Keep your hands off me."

"That's not what you said last night."

Clint snorts. It's undignified. "You wish." he says, and he's not exactly sure what he means by that, but it makes Bucky burst into a fit of almost hysterical laughter. "Just-shut up, okay? Not a word."

Bucky's toothy smile is unnerving, to say the least. "What? C'mon. I can play nice. Hey, I'll even give a speech about you. All that mushy stuff that you're secretly a sucker for. Bet you I can make Steve cry again."

"No speeches."

"Fine. Let me at least shout you a drink." he gives Clint's bicep an unnecessary, almost appreciative, squeeze. "For old times sake. We've got a lot of those, right? Get it? Old times. It's because you're old and we've known each other for so long."

"It's an open bar." Clint reminds, exhaling a sigh. He gulps down the rest of his cosmopolitan, because only alcohol is going to make this less painful.

"Always ruining my fun."

"Yeah, always. That's what I'm here for."

"Sure." Bucky says, nodding, but he's already preoccupied by a new train of thought. "You know Stark owns this joint? It's like his home away from home, I guess, 'cause you need six of those. He brought me and Steve here a couple years back. Pretty big crowd tonight, man. I didn't even think you had that many friends."

"Neither did I." Clint shrugs, eyes downcast and glued to his glass. "Yeah. I don't even recognize half these people."

For a second, Bucky seems disappointed, like that wasn't the reaction he was hoping for. Clint's usually a lot more vocal, hitting back with a jab of his own. Bucky wants to rile him up and get on his nerves, but Clint's a little too preoccupied to think of something sharp and witty. It's weirder, knowing that Tony isn't renting out the building. He owns the place, which somehow feels different. More personal, maybe, and Clint's not sure what to make of that. It's a bachelor pad turned nightclub. Temporarily. Or, maybe this is how Tony keeps it all the time.

"Don't worry." Bucky says, his best attempt at consoling Clint - for what, he doesn't know, but it's a nice attempt on Bucky's part. "You got me, Steve, and Wilson. Don't forget your boyfriend. And I think I saw Banner lurking around somewhere. Nat's bound to turn up soon. It'll be fine. You got plenty of nice faces to look at, including mine. Don't sweat it."

"That's not what-"

Clint startles, at the sudden touch on the back of his neck, half expecting it to be Tony or Nat, but it's Pietro. All big, blue eyes, full of unbridled excitement and awe. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, but better.

"They have jello shots, Clint." he says, by way of greeting, then plants a sloppy, enthusiastic kiss on the corner of Clint's mouth. "Come on. Let's do jello shots."

"Yeah, Clint." Bucky chimes in. "Let's do a round of shots. I'm talking tequila, none of that candy flavored jello shit. I mean, last I checked, we weren't frat boys. Well, maybe he could pass for one," he nods in Pietro's direction. "But not us, buddy."

"Not helping, Barnes."

"I'm not trying to, _Barton_. Lighten up. It won't kill you, will it? You're only 40 once." Bucky hits back, eerily similar to Pietro's little jab just outside of the club. "Might as well live it up while you still can."

A full body shudder passes through Clint as that thought settles: Pietro is, unfortunately, similar to Bucky. Which is fine, sure, and probably not even that bad, except when you get them together, crammed into such close quarters. Pietro snickers at Bucky's comment, amused. And then they fist bump, which is just really awesome. Chances are they'll start plotting up new ways to publicly embarrass Clint and get on his nerves.

"Don't you want to have a drink with me?" Pietro asks, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "I haven't been out in such a long time. I want to."

"I've got a drink." Clint says, holding up the glass in his hand. Which, apparently, is now empty. Pietro raises his eyebrows, calling Clint's bluff. He sets the glass down. "Okay, fine. Let's go. Quickly, before I change my mind."

"Tequila, right?" Bucky perks up.

"Jello." Pietro corrects.

"Tequila."

"Jello"

"Te-qui-la."

Clint throws up his hands in a fit of exasperation. "Both. We'll go and do both." he says, because this is kind of the nightclub equivalent of _'are we there yet?'_ and he's not really feeling that. "If I don't stop this now, you'll just keep going and nobody wants that. I don't want it."

"Both is good." Pietro decides, eventually, after a moment of deep consideration and a brief look shared with Bucky which is bordering on devious, like they've somehow had this planned all along.

* * *

There's a wide, long table stacked with multi-colored jello shots, like a rainbow of vodka. Shades of yellow, orange, neon pink, green, and even a deep blue. Pietro grabs two shots and passes one to Clint, then to Bucky, who looks far too delighted for Clint's liking.

He keeps getting all chummy with Pietro, making inside jokes and nudging him in the side, being all friendly and charming and not at all like the annoying jerk that Clint's come to know and care about. So, he's the jackass with a heart of gold. It's slightly confronting, at first, to see such a wide smile on a face marked with so many dark bruises and cuts, but Pietro's carefree, radiating happiness. That loosens something up inside of Clint, makes him feel more at ease, the tension seeping out of his shoulders as he allows himself to unwind.

Lifting his shot in mock salute, Bucky says, "Here's to you, Barton. Happy 40th. At least you still have your looks and most of your hair." he throws the shot back. Then, with a look of determination, he reaches for another. "We gotta get Steve over here. He loves jello."

It's been awhile - longer than Clint would care to admit, especially not in front of Bucky - since he did jello shots. Back then, they were a lot trickier to get out, sometimes involving a bit of a struggle. Now, though, the jello slides out of the tiny plastic cup easily enough, only needing an encouraging squeeze. Clint helps himself to two more of the bright pink shots, much to Pietro's delight and Bucky's amusement.

Then, on Pietro's request (well, it's not so much a request and more Pietro tugging Clint towards him by the loops on his jeans, mouth quirked up at the corner) they wind their arms together, like a newly married couple sipping on champagne, except with jello. Except, in the middle of Tony Stark's bachelor pad, already sweaty and slightly tipsy. He's barely swallowed his shot when he notices an odd look on Pietro's face, reluctantly following his line of sight and untangling himself from the younger man.

"You're hitting the hard stuff without me?" Tony asks, a smugness to his voice that makes Clint want to laugh, or roll his eyes, or both. He's dressed up nicely, though not so much that he's out of place, fitting in well enough with the sea of leather, denim, and bomber jackets. "Figures. I'll catch up. Gimme a couple minutes."

"Tony. Hey, man." Clint says, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It's good to see you."

"Miss me?"

Clint smiles wryly, suddenly hyperaware of the eyes on him: Tony, Bucky, Pietro. And even Steve, from his spot across the room. "Like a hole in the head." he settles on. It's the right answer. A good one. Tony laughs, attention shifting away, landing briefly on Bucky, who has a neon yellow shot in his hand.

"You scrub up nice, Stark." Bucky nods approvingly.

"I know.

There's a feather-light touch on Clint's lower back. Pietro doesn't say a word, doesn't move to pull Clint closer to his side, just wraps an arm around his waist. And Clint's not sure if it's supposed to be a comforting gesture, or if it's a protective touch, but he's glad for it either way. He doesn't understand how it works, or why it happens, but there's something about Pietro touching him that makes Clint feel grounded and steady. Anchored, even.

"Well? Aren't you going to introduce me?" Tony asks, even though Pietro's standing right there, off to Clint's side with a jello shot in one hand and the other snug around Clint's waist. "He's cute."

It's weird, for a moment. Awkward in a way that it sadly was always going to be. _Inevitable,_ is a word that comes to mind. Clint doesn't know how Pietro manages to deal with it all, meeting two significant ex partner's of Clint's in only a matter of days. He's handling it surprisingly well. Or, at least that's how it appears on the surface. He could be a total wreck inside.

Pietro sticks out his hand. After a pause, Tony accepts and the two shake hands - briefly. "Yes, I am cute. Pietro. Clint's boyfriend. You are the one throwing this party for him, yes? It's good. I like the music."

"That would be me, yup." he says, hands going back to his side. Tony smooths a hand down the front of his dark button up short. It looks silky, like satin. "The one and only Party Guy."

"Sure know how to throw 'em." Bucky whistles.

"It's too much, Tony, really." Clint says. It's not that he's ungrateful, because he appreciates the effort, he does. It's more that this is kind of the exact opposite of what he actually wanted. But he doesn't let that show, tacking on a smile. "Must be costing you a fortune. Cool place you got here."

Tony shrugs, like money isn't a concern, and maybe for him it isn't. Clint's well off, but he could never afford any of this, which is why he's not really sure what to do with it. Or, what to say, without sounding ungrateful. A simple _thanks, Tony_ would've felt inadequate.

"Aw, you're welcome. Don't stress, Barton. After all, you only turn 34 once, right?" he says easily, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Sometimes you have to make a little fuss. Go all out. That's what friends are for."

"Five."

"What?"

"He's thirty- _five_ , not four." Pietro says, then shrugs, light-hearted and casual. "But you were close enough."

"Huh." Tony blinks, his expression all pinched up like he's trying to do the math. "I could've sworn you were-never mind. Uh, anyway, I'm off to mingle. People to see, places to be, and all that. I'll take this," he plucks the untouched jello shot out of Clint's hand. "And I'll come find you later. Stay out of trouble, Barton. Or, in it. Whatever. I mean, it's your birthday, I'm just throwing the party. It was nice to meet you, Peter."

Bucky makes a _womp, womp_ noise as soon as Tony's out of sight. "Awkward. I'm gonna need a lot more vodka in me before I even ask what the hell that was about. You could've cut the tension with a knife."

"Don't ask." Clint warns.

"C'mon, man, I can keep a secret." Bucky whines.

Thankfully, he doesn't give Clint much resistance. Not much, but it's Bucky, so he was always going to make it difficult. Clint somehow manages to locate Sam, so he grabs Bucky by the shoulders and forcefully shoves him in that direction. Bucky can be Sam's problem now. Once he's gone, the first thing Clint does is reach for a jello shot. It goes down smoothly.

"I don't like him." Pietro says bluntly.

"Who, Bucky?" frowning, Clint wipes at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I know. He's annoying. If you-"

"No, not him." he says. "Tony."

"Alright."

"He called me Peter."

"Yeah, I heard."

"And he got your age wrong."

"I heard that, too." Clint nods, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "You don't have to like him. There's nothing wrong with that. Most of the time, I don't even like him. He has a way of growing on you."

"Mm." Pietro hums, unconvinced.

"Wait. Didn't you _and_ Bucky get my age wrong?"

"That's different."

"How?"

Pietro shrugs, chewing on the edge of a blunt nail. He doesn't offer any sort of explanation or reason, which is fine, because Clint doesn't need one. Doesn't want one. _That's different._ It makes sense. Clint's not sure if it's the alcohol or the atmosphere, or a pleasant combination of both, but he feels buzzed. They were happy, too, up until five seconds ago when Tony interrupted their moment.

He wants to get a hold of that feeling again.

"C'mon," he bumps his shoulder against Pietro's playfully. "Let's turn that frown upside down. We'll do anything you want. You name it."

That instantly brightens Pietro's mood. "Anything?"

Uptown Funk starts playing, as if on cue. Clint's going to regret his offer, he can tell. That doesn't stop him from following Pietro out onto the dancefloor.

It also doesn't stop him from being filled with relief at the sight of Natasha across the room. And it's not that he doesn't want to dance, because he probably will, but he's not drunk enough. The night's still young, and when it's an open bar, anything is possible. Clint tugs an affronted Pietro in the opposite direction, away from the dancefloor and over to where Natasha's standing, effortlessly cool, dressed up nicely in a leather and denim combo.

"Well, don't you boys look nice." she says, sipping idly on a dirty martini. "Nice jacket, Running Man."

Pietro gives her a once-over. "My sister has shoes like yours."

"Your sister has impeccable taste."

Clint's not really sure what's happening. The two are, in a way, bonding. Over shoes and jackets, and a shared love for olives, apparently. He doesn't want to disturb it - or, ruin it - so he keeps quiet. And then Scott Lang happens, which was something no one could've accounted for.

"Hey, guys, what're we talking about?" he asks, slotting in the narrow gap between Pietro and Clint's shoulders. "Oh, hey. I don't think we've met. Scott. Is that an olive? You guys know if they sell orange slices?"

"Orange slices," Clint says, frowning, just to be sure that he's heard Scott right. "Slices?"

Scott frowns, scoffs, and shrugs all in the space of five seconds. He's a very animated guy, apparently. "Uh, yeah. You know, it's like a whole orange, but cut into slices. So, it's...smaller." then he pulls a face as if to say _'wow, can you even believe this guy? He doesn't know what an orange slices are'_ and slaps Pietro on the shoulder. "Hey, you. I know you. Well, I know your sister."

Clint's frown deepens. "You know Wanda? How?"

"How do _you_ know Wanda? he asks.

"I'm dating her brother."

"Oh, that's awesome!" Scott exclaims, way too cheerily for somebody that Clint's never interacted with outside of work. It's sweet, in a way. Scott Lang is a very excitable guy, his smile infectious, it seems. "That's great news. I don't even know what to say, man. Congrats on the-on the dating."

Pietro bites down on his lip, hard, like he's trying not to laugh. "Yes, we're very happy together. How do you know my sister?"

"My friend-well, he's not really a friend. He's the cousin of this guy I know, Luis. His cousin, twice removed, I think. Or was it thrice removed? Anyway, he worked at the bar where Wanda used to work before she quit. Something to do with the management. There were some issues. Not with the thrice removed cousin, but with the boss. He was taking a little extra and putting it on the side, if you know what I mean." he explains, all in one long breath.

"I'm not sure that I do." Clint says.

"Doesn't matter." Scott shrugs, pulling a face, then angles himself towards Pietro. "Oh, man. The last time I saw you, well, you were this tall." he gestures down to his knee. "I don't know where the time goes. It just flies by."

Pietro narrows his eyes. "We've never met before."

"Yeah." Scott smacks his lips together. "I don't know why I said that. I panicked. But I really did know Wanda. Great kid. She used to show me pictures of you. Well, not just of you. That'd be weird. I mean, you're nice to look at, but I'm not-anyway, the photos were of the two of you. Together. So, uh, you see any orange slices just hanging around? A wedge? Even like, an unsliced orange. A whole one."

"I think they have pineapple." Pietro says.

"And olives." Natasha adds.

"I _do_ like an olive." Scott murmurs, tapping an index finger against his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I think I'll go chase up that lead. Happy Birthday, Clark. Have a good one."

"It's Clint."

"Really? You look like a Clark."

"Get outta here, Lang. Go chase up those orange slices." Clint says, with a placid smile. He doesn't even feel bad about sending Scott away, because he'll be back in the blink of an eye.

Pietro bails, shortly after, under the excuse of grabbing a round of drinks from the bar, but Clint thinks he might also want to go find some oranges. Maybe. Or, maybe he's off secretly slamming down shots with Bucky, which is definitely what it looks like from where Clint's standing, watching as the two giggle and shove at each other like kids sneaking out past curfew on a school night. Natasha clears her throat pointedly, drawing Clint's attention back towards her.

"A little bird told me that you almost got into it with Tony." she says, not even remotely surprised. "You wanna tell me what happened, because he won't."

"What d'you think happened? C'mon, it's Stark. Put two and two together, Nat." he scratches at his freshly shaven jaw. "He said a couple things that pissed Pietro off. That's all. Nobody got into anything." pausing, he bites down on his lip before next speaking. "So? You like him?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"I might."

"You got a hell of poker face, Nat."

"He's cute." Natasha says, toying with the wooden skewer in her martini glass. Then, she spears it through the olive, popping it into her mouth.

"And?" Clint presses.

"And you made a good call on this one."

That's about the closest thing to a tick of approval that he's going to get from her tonight. But then Pietro shows up and swaps out her empty glass for a fresh martini (dirty, two olives) and Natasha has a look on her face that really says it all. She's impressed.

Bucky tags along, of course, dragging a very apologetic-looking Steve behind him. He cosies up right next to Clint, squeezing in between him and Pietro, just like Lang had. He reeks of alcohol, already, and squished in beside Clint. Apparently, Bucky has never heard of boundaries and doesn't care about respecting personal space. _Oh well._

Fifteen minutes breeze by. There's a lot of reminiscing, a couple embarrassing stories but nothing too crippling that Clint can't recover from. It's nice, seeing Pietro fit in so well with the rest of his friends. With a glass poised to his lips, Clint freezes. There's a hand on his waist, sliding lower, _lower_. It doesn't stop.

Clint sighs.

"That better not be your hand on my ass, Barnes." he says under his breath, but not quietly enough that Bucky will miss it. "Better not be."

It isn't, thankfully. Pietro doesn't move his hand away and Clint doesn't want him to. He goes back to sipping on his cosmo and listening in as Sam finally gets out the rest of that story involving Bucky and a Flaming Doctor Pepper: he singed off both eyebrows.

* * *

"Your boy just drank Rhodes under the table." Sam says, by way of greeting.

He plops down into the seat directly opposite from Clint: a sleek, plush lounge. _Purple._ Two round wooden tables sit between them, identical shimmery tablecloths spread out over each, and cube-shaped lights that cast a pale yellow glow across the table. Sam sets his drink down and some of it spills over the side, splashing onto the glossy fabric.

"What?"

"Your boy. The one with all the hair," Sam makes a vague gesture towards his own head. "Silver Boy. You know I'm not so great with names. C'mon, man. Help me out. You know which one I'm talking about. Your boy, Spikey."

Clint snorts into his drink.

 _Silver Boy._

It's close enough. Really, Clint's just impressed that Sam even remembered the color of Pietro's hair. He's not so good with the finer details when it comes to people, and remembers faces more accurately than he does names.

Clint drags a finger along the rim of his glass. A bourbon on the rocks, nearly empty. "His name's Pietro."

"Knew it." Sam snaps his fingers.

"No, you didn't."

"It was right there, man. Right on the tip of my tongue. It was, I swear." he insists. "But yeah, he just drank Rhodes under the table. I respect that."

Smirking, Clint glances out over the room. A long, lit up bar. Neon lights. A full dancefloor; it's almost psychedelic, the way the lights move and shift, casting shadows and odd shapes on the floor. There's even a small stage - well, it's more of a slightly elevated platform - for the DJ.

"You only like him 'cause he beat Rhodes."

"I'm not even gonna fight you."

"Atta boy." Clint mumbles, between sips of his drink. He swallows the rest of the bourbon down easily, then fixes Sam with a look, still clutching onto his empty glass. "You know if Bucky still smokes?"

"Probably."

"Cool." he says, staring down at the glass. Light catches on the rim as he turns it slowly. "Nat seems happy."

Sam shrugs, but there's something almost coy about it. A fond look passes over his face. "We're good. You and Spikey, huh? Dude can hold his drink. I like that."

"You like everybody."

"Not true. I didn't like you when we first met," Sam says. "And don't even get me started on Barnes. You may have your faults, but at least you're not _him_."

Clint's laugh is scratchy, at first. Full of amusement. He rubs at the back of his neck, setting his glass down onto the table. "Hey, man, that's alright with me. I didn't like you all that much either, if we're being honest."

"Is that right?"

"Yep." he nods. "And I still don't like you much now."

"Oh, sure you don't. You could be over there," he gestures towards the far side of the room, where some of the group is gathered around the bar, chugging down shot after shot. "Drinking yourself stupid with the rest of 'em, but instead you're sitting here, getting all friendly with me, which means you _like_ me. It's impossible not to like me."

"But you came over here first."

"You looked sad, man. You can't be sad on your birthday. I know that it's not technically your birthday, but still." he argues, nodding at the mostly untouched drink in front of them. The drink he spilt, five seconds earlier. "That's why I brought over a drink for you."

"Really? That's for me?" Clint stretches across the small distance between them, picks up the glass of dark amber liquid and smiles. "I think you might be growing on me, Wilson. I like you better already, even if you did spill half my drink all over the table."

Sam looks like he wants to say something, badly, like it's on the tip of his tongue, but then something catches his attention and he straightens up, a grin spreading across his face.

"Here comes trouble," he says, with a touch of fondness that doesn't go unnoticed.

That's his way of excusing himself, apparently. He rises from the lounge, giving Clint's shoulder a squeeze on his way out. Clint cranes his neck and watches Sam speed over to Pietro. _Here comes trouble_ , indeed. Clint doesn't know if he should be surprised, concerned, or impressed that Pietro's still upright after beating Rhodey. Natasha beckons Sam over, so he goes running. Clint goes back to his drink.

Pietro slides in next to Clint, smelling strongly of alcohol and sweat. An earthy mix. There's a hint of cologne, too. A delicious-smelling aftershave. Clint shifts, one arm going around Pietro's shoulders, instinctively pulling him closer.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, with an arm draped over Pietro's shoulders; minutes, half an hour, it doesn't matter. It's good to have a quiet moment amidst the chaos. They pass the glass of scotch back and forth until it's empty, only chunks of melting ice left behind, sliding across the bottom of the crystal glass. Pietro recaps how he beat Rhodes, at some drinking game that involved push-ups and yeah, Clint's glad he skipped on doing _that_. Rhodes is a fitness junkie, so Clint's kind of impressed that Pietro managed to beat him.

It isn't long before the rest of the group show up, inserting themselves into the conversation. Sam sprawls out on that seat again, with Natasha next to him and Steve next to her. And then there's Bucky, who climbs over Pietro to squeeze in between them, an unapologetic look on his face as he hangs his arms around both of their shoulders, kissing Clint on the top of the head.

* * *

It's a little after 9PM when Clint steps outside for some air. Or, more accurately: when he climbs the stairs out of curiosity, discovers that there are somehow more people up here than there are downstairs, and _oh_ , there's also a balcony. Clint's always liked those.

Narrow yet spacious, with a wrought iron railing, a couple of haphazardly scattered potted plants and decorative pieces, and not much else. The view is pretty sweet, he has to admit. A sky full of bright, silver stars, twinkling in the darkness.

Clint needs air. That, and a cigarette. He pinched Bucky's crinkled Marlboro packet along with his favorite zippo lighter when he wasn't looking, too busy trying to impress Pietro to even notice.

A breeze washes over Clint, bringing a little clarity with it. With an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, he pats down his pockets in search of the light, eventually finding it in the back left pocket of his jeans. The zippo lighter is faded, gold, and has a small inscription carved into it:

 _03/21_

An anniversary of some description, probably. Clint runs the pad of his thumb over the carving, then flicks the lid back and lights the smoke. Leaning against the balcony railing, he peers out at the crowded street below, which is mostly empty apart from several cars, motorcycles, and a couple kids on skateboards speeding by. He draws back on the cigarette, inhaling slowly, and watches a brunette in ridiculously tall stilettos dart across the road, almost getting clipped by a hideous yellow cab in the process.

Clint leans back, exhaling a ring of smoke.

The balcony is secluded, away from the rest of the party, the thundering bass and intermingled smell of smoke and sweat. Inside, the music is obnoxiously loud, bordering on deafening. A thumping, upbeat tempo; a song without any words. Something that Pietro earlier described as techno, whatever that is. Clint's still not sure, but he didn't want to say that, so he nodded along like he understood.

He feels a sudden vibration that has nothing to do with the blaring music. Clint pulls out his phone and squints down at several new notifications: some are game alerts, or emails that can wait until later, but there are three new texts from Wanda, the earliest dated back to almost half an hour earlier.

Clint's not sure how he missed that.

 **[9:04PM]:**

 **Hi. Not sure if you're there or not, but tonight didn't go as planned. We waited for over an hour even though Viszh made a reservation weeks in advance. Ended up walking out. Might've been my fault.**

 **[9:07PM]:**

 **It was my fault. I got us kicked out. So, I want to make it up to Viszh. Tonight didn't go as planned. I thought we could stop by your party? Not to check in on Piet, but to celebrate. I thought it might be nice...**

 **[9:15PM]:**

 **Message back soon.**

[9:32PM]:

of course u can come around. b my guest

[9:33PM]:

wait this means we get to meet the bf? finally

 **[9:34PM]:**

 **He's not my boyfriend. But yes, you'll meet him.**

[9:35PM]:

cool. will forward address 4u

[9:37PM]:

see u and visz soon

[9:37PM]:

*visor

[9:38PM]:

viszh

 **[9:38PM]:**

 **He prefers Vision, actually.**

[9:39PM]:

dudes name is vision? nice

After he forwards the address, Clint stuffs his phone away and turns his gaze skyward. It's peaceful, for a moment. He closes his eyes, allowing the night air to wash over him. The lingering taste of alcohol combined with nicotine makes Clint feel pleasantly dizzy, and buzzed. And then, of course, he's inevitably interrupted. Clint's eyes flutter open slowly.

"Oh, hi. What're you doing out here, all by your lonesome, Birthday Boy?" comes Tony's voice. He doesn't even try to be discreet about creeping up on Clint. Then again, he's never been discreet about anything, really. Sure, he omits things, but he's not exactly subtle. "Not hiding, are you?"

Clint throws a quick glance over his shoulder, holding the cigarette up as explanation. "What does it look like?"

"You _can_ do that indoors, you know. Yup. There's a whole restricted area just for you and your bad habit." he says, slinking up beside Clint. He leans against the railing, too, mirroring Clint's posture. "Enjoying yourself?"

"What, this? I'm trying to quit."

"I'm talking about the party, not your filthy habit."

"Like you can talk." Clint scoffs. "I know you've got plenty of bad habits. Enough for the both of us."

"Touché."

"But yeah," he nods belatedly, cigarette pinched between forefinger and thumb. "I am enjoying myself. More than I thought I would, y'know. It's good. Everybody seems to be enjoying themselves. You sure know how to impress 'em, man, I'll give you that."

Tony tips his head in consideration. "If only I knew how to keep 'em." he says, with a weary sigh. "Or, how to get 'em back. I haven't figured that part out just yet. Weird. But I'm working on it, so I'll get there. Maybe."

"You got Pepper back, didn't you?"

The silence that follows is a pretty sufficient answer. Not much causes Clint to inhale nicotine like it's a substitute for air, but awkward pauses and weighted silences can definitely do the trick. This, the hesitation, the way that it feels like Tony's watching him expectantly, waiting for him to say or do something, makes Clint want to smoke half of Bucky's packet just to ease his frayed nerves.

"Didn't you?" Clint presses.

"Well, you see, that's the thing about appearances," Tony begins. "They can be super deceptive. Me and Pep? We're just friendly, not back together. Yeah. We're better when we're not romantically entangled. I was talking about you, obviously."

Oh, Clint thinks. _Oh._

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Which part?"

"All of it." Clint says, staring down at his hands, the soft orange glow of the cigarette tip. A thin wisp of smoke curls up towards the sky, dissipating in seconds. "Yeah. I'm sorry about you and Pepper. I'm sorry that you think this is something I wanna talk about, 'cause I don't."

"We were good together, weren't we?"

Clint shakes his head. "Not even a little."

It's the truth, plain and unabridged. Blunt and maybe even harsh, but true. There were good times, sure, but there weren't enough good times to overshadow the less good ones. The way it left Clint feeling totally inadequate.

"But we had fun."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"It could."

 _Not likely_ , Clint thinks. And Tony, well, he's suddenly a lot closer than he was five seconds ago. Clint jerks back, putting distance between them, as soon as he realizes that Tony's leaning in for a kiss.

"Jesus. Are you kidding me right now? I don't know what I expected. This is so you." Clint stabs an accusatory finger in Tony's direction. "Always want what you don't have. It's so damn like you."

Tony's smile is slow to form. He shrugs. "No biggie. Better to have loved and lost, and all that, right? Figured I'd give it a shot. Whatever. You look good, Barton. Especially for someone your age."

"Says the guy that's older than me."

"Irrelevant."

"You never loved me, man. That's not what it was," Clint says bluntly, squinting out into the street below. "And we both know it. Whatever it was, it's finished. I don't wanna revisit that."

"So, instead, you're having a mid-life crisis with a twenty-something boy toy." he murmurs, quietly enough that it's barely audible over the thumping bass.

Then he starts backing up a couple paces, like he half expects for Clint to throw a punch. Which, in all honesty, he almost does. He's so close, flicking his cigarette to the pavement and crushing it out with his heel and snapping away from the railing.

"Wanna say that again, Tony?"

"Not really. I'm good."

"It's not a mid-life crisis," Clint argues. "We're in love, not that it's any of your business.

Love. Something of a foreign concept to Tony. And sure, he loves his friends and his family, and he might've even loved Pepper, once. Might love her still. But he never looked at Clint the way that Pietro looks at him, the way that Bucky and Steve gaze after each other, the way Sam lights up whenever Natasha's nearby.

Clint glowers down at the pavement, at the crushed out cigarette that he wasn't even done with, but threw to the ground in a fit of irritation. "I got half a mind to walk outta this party right now, Stark. You pull that shit again, I swear I will."

"I can't say I'd blame you." Tony shrugs jerkily. "Don't go. I screwed up, okay? Nobody's surprised, least of all me. I shouldn't have said that. You and Pietro, you seem happy. It's sickening. Repulsive, even."

"What's your point?"

"My _point_ is you're now one of those certified sickeningly happy couples now. It made me wonder," he trails off.

"Well, don't." Clint shakes his head. "Don't wonder. Just-piss off, man. Go."

Tony nods like he understands, which is something Clint really doubts. It's _Tony._ He leaves, at least, disappearing back downstairs. It's for the best. This way, Clint doesn't have to break his nose.

This way, Clint gets to light another cigarette.

He doesn't get that far though, and freezes when a pair of arms wind around his waist. A part of Clint nearly expects it to be Tony. Maybe that's why he jumps, startled by the touch. But it's only Pietro, his voice low and right by Clint's ear. He sounds-well, concerned. Not jealous, not like he saw (or, heard) anything. Clint exhales a sigh of relief.

"I saw Tony, coming down from here." Pietro says, chin resting on Clint's shoulder. "Did something happen?"

Clint places a hand atop of Pietro's own, where they're wrapped tight around his middle. "Nothing important." he says. "Let's go back down. Your sister's dropping in with her boyfriend and I wanna meet him. He sounds cool."

* * *

 **A/N:** Part 1 of the birthday shenanigans! More coming soon. I put a little photoset and playlist together for this chapter, so if you want to see that, check out my tumblr. I'm under the same username on there: _clintspietro._

And to BallroomGlitz, I hope you've enjoyed the party so far :-)


	33. Chapter 33

FRI 12 JUNE

"But I missed you, birthday boy." Pietro says, still draped across Clint's back. His words come out a little slurred. "I missed you and I want you all to myself." he pecks Clint on the cheek, arms tightening around his middle.

"I'm not gonna argue with that."

"Good. Vision can wait."

Clint closes his eyes against the gentle breeze, letting it wash over him. In his ear, Pietro's rambling on about stars and their patterns and zodiac signs. Clint's knowledge of constellations is very, _very_ limited. But there's an old book on the shelf at home, wedged in between one of Laura's crime thrillers and one of Clint's cookbooks, probably, that he can dust off for the weekend. Something to bond over, maybe. A bit of light reading.

The weight of Pietro pressed up against him is, well, nice. And that's surprising, since Clint's sweaty and bothered (not in the good way either, but because of Tony and the almost-kiss, it got him all pissed off). There's something about Pietro's presence that melts the irritation away. He somehow manages to turns it into something else.

"Old man, there is something I want to show you." Pietro says, in what is very obviously a mock whsiper. "Look at that shape. What do you think it is? A lamb?"

Clint's eyes snap open. One large hand is planted on his hip. The other, he belatedly realizes, is gone, pointing up at the stars. Clint follows the line of Pietro's hand, the tip of his finger. The shape doesn't look like a lamb. At least, not to Clint.

"That's not a lamb, kid."

"No, not that one, _that_ one." Pietro sighs.

But he's still pointing at the hammer, which doesn't look at all like a cotton-white lamb. Clint nods and plays along, like a good boyfriend. It's a lie, sure, but when he cranes his head to the side and sees how pleased Pietro looks, chin nestled on Clint's shoulder, a broad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Clint decides it's worth it.

A small lie for a big smile. Definitely worth it.

"Oh, yeah. I see it now."

"Do you?" Pietro asks, understandably skeptical.

"Yeah, sure. That bit there," Clint points at the sky, at the gathering of stars that, upon closer inspection, don't really look like anything at all. It's not a hammer, not a lamb, but a splotch. "That's the tail, right?"

It isn't.

Pietro spends the next five minutes explaining all of the reasons why that couldn't possibly be the tail. The worst part is that he steps away, disentangling himself from Clint, so that he can gesture wildly at the sky as he points out the head, feet, ears. His arm falls from Clint's waist, and the pressure against Clint's back is gone, taking the warmth along with it. Cold air creeps unpleasantly down his spine, making him shiver.

The lesson in star patterns goes about as well as Clint expected. So, not very well. Pietro's not exactly patient, which isn't even remotely surprising. Clint's a joker, which is even less surprising. About halfway through, Clint lights up a smoke. He pauses, with it poised to his lips, when he notices Pietro staring. He's gawking, really.

"You're staring at me." Clint says. It's hard _not_ to notice it, really. Impossible. Pietro's not subtle at the best of times. "Is it the hair?" he lifts a hand to his head self-consciously, ready to pat down any spikey bits. "I didn't put any gel in."

And then he realizes it's the cigarette.

"Do you want one? We can share," he offers, holding the untouched cigarette out for Pietro. "Here."

Pietro happily accepts. He takes a long drag, then passes it back, exhaling slowly out of the corner of his mouth.

The tips of his fingers brush against Clint's as he hands the cigarette over. Apparently, that isn't the reason for the staring, since Pietro has no qualms about smoking. He's clearly not disgusted by it, which means there has to be another reason why he's watching Clint like that, stealing hurried glances when he thinks Clint can't see. But he can and does. Pietro's nowhere near as stealthy as he thinks he is.

"So?" Clint asks. "I got something on my face?"

"No, no, I just realized-" Pietro cuts himself off. And yeah, that's definitely a faint pinkness coloring his cheeks. He's flustered _._ "I realized something, but it isn't important." he decides, waving dismissively in Clint's direction.

"Kinda feels like it is."

Pietro doesn't answer. He leans more against Clint's side, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, his attention now fixed on the star-speckled sky. They pass the cigarette back and forth, content to stay out on the secluded balcony for a little while longer. Music blares through the building, but once it wafts outdoors, it's quieter and muffled in a way that makes Clint feel as if he's an entire world away from the elaborately decorated party downstairs.

"Do you believe in fate?" Pietro asks suddenly, not quite looking at him. His accent is thicker, Clint notices.

 _No_ , Clint thinks. Not really. Some of the time, maybe, but certainly not all of it. He believes that certain things can't be avoided. He believes in the inevitable. In taking action, making a choice, dealing with the consequences, good and bad. Fate isn't the reason his parents died, no. That was a head-on collison with a drunk driver. Fate didn't kill Barney, or pull Clint away from Laura.

There were reasons. Fate wasn't one of them.

His hand shakes a little as he lifts the cigarette to his lips, drawing back slowly. It's a bad habit, he knows, and he'll kick it one day.

For now, at least, tobacco helps him cope with the bouts of anxiety, helps smooth down his frayed nerves. He and Barney always struggled with their vices. Clint, with his cigarettes and his brief foray into gambling. Barney, with his alcohol and tendency to pick petty fights when drunk.

"I guess it depends. Why? Do you?"

"Yes," Pietro nods. "What about love at first sight?"

Clint opens his mouth to answer. _No_ , he thinks, but then he hesitates. There was Laura, and sure, that wasn't love at first sight, but it was different. And then there's Pietro. Clint remembers it vividly, as if it were yesterday: spotting Pietro across the bustling crowd at a brightly lit carnival. It felt new. Brighter and obvious and clearer, in a way it hadn't been before.

Maybe it was fate, drawing them together. A text meant for someone else. Clint's not ruling it out. Not completely. He's a little skeptical, sure, but sometimes he wonders if it was inevitable. If it was fated, even. Fate might've brought them together, sure, but something stronger than fate is keeping them that way.

Now, love at first sight is another matter entirely, because Pietro's beautiful. With big, gorgeous eyes, tanned skin, a wicked smile and a finely sculpted body. Still. Clint's not that shallow. There's more to love than looks, like a kind heart and a sense of humor.

"Do _you_ believe in love at first sight?" Clint asks, pausing to draw back on the cigarette. Once he's inhaled, exhaled, he continues: "Or should I walk by again?"

Pietro's laugh is infectious. The joke is terribly lame and Clint won't ever live it down, but he can't bring himself to care. He dissolves into a fit of laughter, too, so hard that his shoulders are shaking from it.

"Walk by again." the younger man insists.

"Oh, I see how it is." Clint says, slightly affronted. "That's real harsh. I feel like I need to remind people that it's my birthday, so they'll start being nicer to me."

"No, no, I meant walk by again so I can watch you." Pietro explains. He clumsily accepts the offered cigarette, keeps it poised between forefinger and thumb as he waves his hand around wildly, struggling to articulate his point. "You know, like the song. You know the one."

He hums a song that doesn't sound even a little familiar.

"I can't say I do know that one."

Pietro rolls his eyes, exasperted. "You know what? Forget that I said anything, old man. And yes, I do believe in love at first sight. Always. Do you?"

"Yeah, I'm not so sure. I'm a bit of a skeptic." Clint admits, followed by a jerky shrug of shoulders. He's a romantic at heart, but love at first sight has always seemed like a bit of a stretch. Until recently. "Maybe, yeah. But just you."

"Just me?" Pietro asks, sliding in between Clint and the balcony railing, an arm winding around his waist. He lifts the cigarette to his lips, doesn't inhale right away. "I think I can live with this."

"Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Not so bad at all."

Minutes slide by, though it could be longer, Clint can't be sure. Plumes of pale smoke waft up towards the sky. The hand stays on Clint's waist, all the way until they go back inside: Clint, off to greet Wanda and her "not-a-boyfriend" boyfriend, Vision. Pietro, off to meet Bucky for some sort of dare that Clint wants no part in or knowledge of.

Clint takes one final look at Pietro, almost certain that, if Bucky's involved, this will be the last time he sees Pietro with both eyebrows intact.

* * *

Vision isn't cool. Things get real deep, real fast. He waxes poetic about mortality, the futility of life, and the inevitable end. It's very uncool. Vision's depressing speech (which is starting to sound a lot like a eulogy) makes Clint want to bleach his brain with alcohol.

Sighing, Clint glances down at the empty beer bottle in his hands. He tries to figure out how he went from being on a secluded balcony, Pietro's arms wrapped tight around his middle, to _here_. Squeezed into a booth, in between Vision and Wanda, playing a very awkward and very intoxicated third wheel.

"Oh, yeah. That's cool." Clint nods along, even though he hasn't been paying much attention for the last five or so minutes. He rolls the bottle between his hands, picks at the sticker idly until the corners start peeling away.

Wanda hits him.

And sure, it's not even that hard, but Clint still squawks in surprise. He winces, rubbing at the area tenderly, because _ow_. Rude. It kind of stings.

"Be nice." she says, underneath her breath.

It's quiet enough that Vision probably misses it. Probably. After all, the music is deafeningly loud. Not enough that it drowns out Vision's ramblings entirely, but he most likely doesn't notice Clint and Wanda's little tiff.

"You hit me." Clint pouts, rubbing at the spot. Then adds, "I don't think we need to worry about me not being nice. I mean, you just hit me. In the arm. On my birthday."

"Because you're being rude."

"Am I? Really? _I'm_ the one being rude?"

"Yes."

Clint holds the beer bottle by the neck, waving it around in the air. "I need more of this, before I have to listen to more of _that_. He's cute, Wanda. But that's about it."

"He's just nervous."

"That makes two of us."

Wanda rolls her eyes and it suddenly makes sense, like a lightbulb going off in Clint's brain. So, that's where Pietro gets it from. It's not just a kneejerk reaction that he has around Clint, but it's a family trait to roll eyes, frown, and pull faces.

And to mutter in Sokovian.

"Više kao tri."

"Sweetheart, go get a drink. Get him a drink. Or, you know, several. Enjoy yourself," he encourages, a hand going to her shoulder. Clint squeezes lightly before climbing to his feet, stepping away. "I better go make sure your brother's not getting into too much trouble."

"Oh, don't worry." Wanda smiles broadly. "He will be."

 _Great_ , Clint thinks. And it actually is, because this isn't just his night to cut loose. It's a night for Pietro to not think too hard and just enjoy himself.

Aside from a couple of bumpy moments (like that weird almost-kiss with Tony. Vision's eulogy. That one jerk that kept hitting Clint up for his number, despite him insisting that he was very happily taken) the night has mostly run smoothly. Clint's surprised by how much he's enjoying himself, by how much he's _letting_ himself enjoy the drinks, the company, the pretty lights. He's a lot less wound up, which he probably owes to all the free booze and Bucky's cigarettes.

Maybe also to Steve, who fixed him with a gentle smile and a soft "hey, buddy" and pulled him off to the side for a quality heart-to-heart. The kind only Steve Rogers could provide.

Clint strolls across the room, nodding his head along to the song. It's catchy, even if he doesn't know the words. At all. Not even _one_. The music is loud - the kind of loud that makes the walls shake, the kind that Clint can feel vibrating through his bones - but it's nice, in a way. It's a good distraction that drowns out all else.

He has to make a couple of quick stops along the way, obligatory "hi, how are you" and "thanks for coming" and other pieces of small talk, but he eventually reaches the bar, slipping by a gathering of semi-familiar faces.

"There's a line, pal. Get in it." the bartender says, followed by a dismissive wave of hand. He's tall-ish, but shorter than Clint, with light brown hair and a checkered rag slung over his shoulder. "Come on. Wait your turn."

Frowning, Clint throws a glance back over his shoulder, then checks either side of him for a line, and _weird_ , there's no one there. Actually, most of the room seems to have migrated to the edges of the dancefloor. There are maybe half a dozen tipsy guests speaking with the dark-haired bartender down the opposite end of the bar, but that's it.

"What?"

"Get in line You heard me."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Of _course_ I am. Man, you should've seen your face." the bartender snickers. "So, buddy, what can I get you? Pick your poison."

Clint slides the opaque bottle across the bar. "I'll just have another one of those."

"You want-a bottle? An empty bottle?"

"No," Clint deadpans. "I want a beer."

"Well, why didn't you just say that! Hey, you're Clint, right? You're the birthday boy. That's a funny name. _Clint._ What's it short for? Cletus?" he says, all in one breath, then pulls the rag off his shoulder and starts polishing a glass.

After that, he wipes down the bar.

Clint blinks at him, struggling to comprehend.

"It's a funny sounding name. Clint-ton." the bartender (his nametag says ROCKET) shakes his head, and laughs to himself like it's the funniest name he's ever heard in his entire life. But with a name like Rocket, Clint decides that can't be true.

"Yeah." Clint scoffs. "Says the guy named Rocket."

Rocket's laughter is loud. Excessive. _Fake._

He guffaws, slapping a hand down on the bar bench, then he points an accusatory finger at Clint. "Don't steal my thing. I mean, I like you, but that's _so_ my thing. I started it. Remember? I was all, 'hey, Clint's a funny name' and then you stole my thing. Don't be that guy."

"I'm not that guy."

"No? Then why'd you steal my thing?"

Clint drums his fingers against the sticky, brightly lit bar top. "I don't know." he decides, because really, he wants a beer and that's about it.

"I like you, so I'll let it slide, Clint." Rocket says. He fetches a beer for Clint, popping the cap off and trading it over for the empty bottle. "Here. This one's on the house."

"Isn't it an open bar?"

"Your point being?"

"Aren't _all_ the beers on the house?"

Rocket pauses. He's in the middle of polishing that same glass. Now, though, he's gawking at Clint. "You had to go and ruin it, didn't you, Clint? I made a real nice gesture," he pretends to slide an invisible beer across the bar, in Clint's direction, mimicking his earlier actions. "And you had to ruin it."

"Yeah. I'm real sorry about that, man." Clint says, doesn't sound even a little apologetic, really.

"Man, I was just kidding. _Again._ I was just kidding." Rocket says. "Actually, I wasn't. That was me, being nice. It was a gesture. Don't ruin it next time. Hey, Gamora," he calls out to the dark-haired bartender. "This is Clint. Isn't his name weird? Clint. It's like a noise. _Clink._ "

There's something about Rocket that makes Clint smile, his mouth pulling up at the corners. He tries to smother a laugh behind his hands. The cap on his beer has already been removed, so he takes a sip of it, followed by a longer one. Clint leans more of his weight against the bar and spends a good fifteen minutes talking with Rocket. They met before, once, apparently. Five years ago, at one of Quill's parties. Most of the night was a blur, just like this one will be, Clint thinks.

Rocket is surprisingly easy to talk to.

He's a good storyteller and has a weird sense of humor. It doesn't feel forced, like some of the other conversations Clint's had to partake in. Clint's almost disappointed when Rocket gets called back to work, due to a massive influx of thirsty patrons tumbling in from the heavily crowded dancefloor. Clint stays by the bar, happily sipping on his beer. He barely even notices when a guy in a dark leather jacket sidles up next to him.

However, it's impossible _not_ to notice when the man leans in, close enough that Clint nearly chokes on the smell of his sickly sweet aftershave.

"Brandon." he says, shoving a hand out for Clint to shake. And he does, before returning to his beer. "You come here often?"

Clint swallows down a mouthful of beer, then shakes his head. "Nope." he drums his fingers along the neck of the bottle. Until tonight, this place didn't exist. It was Stark's bachelor pad, sure, but it wasn't a club. "Never."

"Let me buy you a drink."

"Thanks." Clint holds up his beer. "But I've got one."

"So, you here alone?" Brandon asks, at the exact moment that Clint loudly blurts out, "Look, man, I'm flattered. But I'm married. Happily married. So, no. I'm not here alone."

Brandon frowns and leans in closer, like he missed what Clint said. Which is understandable, really, most of it was probably lost to the thundering bass. At least, that's what Clint thinks, until he feels a hand on his lower back.

"How happy can you be," he pauses. "If you're not wearing a ring? I only wanna buy you a drink, man. It's not like I'm asking you to go home with me. Yet. It's just a drink."

"You've got five, maybe ten, seconds before my husband notices where your hand is," Clint says. "And breaks it. So, if I were you, I'd piss off. Uh-oh. Time's up. Here he comes and yup, he looks pissed. I'd hate to be you right now."

It's really the only excuse Clint can think of: married. And in all honestly, it's not that much of a stretch. Sure, he and Pietro aren't married, but they _are_ happy. Blissfully happy, when life allows it. With no one else around, Clint's only option is to latch onto the first somewhat familiar face he recognizes.

And that just happens to be Thor. _Great._

Thor waves down the bartender, coming to stand next to Clint. He's all big and shiny and so painfully unaware of the tricky situation that Brandon's put Clint in.

"Hey, babe." Clint says, maybe a little too stiffly. He looks to Brandon and says: "This is my husband. Thor. He's a-" he trails off, mind blank. _A topless model for Calvin Klein._ "He's a physicist. Right, babe? You're a physicist."

The look on Thor's face is priceless, and nothing short of comical. He looks between Clint and Brandon, as if he's trying (and struggling) to jam the pieces together. A broad smile spreads across his face.

"Yes, I am a physicist. And you are?"

At first, Brandon seems pretty skeptical, his eyes darting between them. "Brandon." he offers his hand for Thor to shake and almost immediately regrets it, judging by the sharp wince of pain that follows. "I'm a- _ah_. I'm a lawyer."

Thor probably crushed his hand without even realizing it. _Atta boy_ , Clint smiles. Thor's bulky. Friendly, too. He's also very committed to selling the idea of being married to Clint. "Any friend of Clint's is a friend of mine. How long have you known this one? It will be six years for us, this December."

"Oh. Well, we only just met." Brandon flounders.

"Still," Thor slings an arm around Clint's shoulders. "We're pleased to have you here to celebrate this very special occasion. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Clint touches Thor's bicep. "No, it's not. We don't like this guy."

"Well, then. It is no longer a pleasure."

Thankfully, Brandon does piss off and Thor doesn't even ask for an explanation. He's warm and animated, he talks sports and books and a bit of politics (nothing too heavy, thankfully, because this night has already been intense enough). Then he goes on a long excitable rant about how intelligent his girlfriend is, awe written across his face.

His eyes actually glisten when he talks about her. And if Clint weren't so in love himself, then he might've found it sickeningly sweet. Instead, he gets it.

"I owe you, man."

"No, no." Thor waves it off. "Consider this my gift to you, _husband._ He was...irksome. And puny."

Clint lifts his beer in salute. "I'll drink to that."

"Oh, it's _you_." comes Rocket's voice. "You're still here. It's been like," he flips his arm over and pretends to inspect his wrist for the time, but he's not wearing a watch. "Like, two hours. Maybe three."

"You're not wearing a watch."

"Alright, Captain Obvious. It was a metaphor."

"Obviously."

"Don't steal my thing again, man. I thought we went over this." Rocket groans. It's all super exaggerated and a little on the dramatic side. Or, a _lot_. Rocket has a flare for the dramatics, it seems. "I said it first. Not cool." his attention shifts to Thor. "What can I get you, big guy? I mean, wow. You're like, three times the size of him." he jerks a thumb in Clint's direction. "Impressive. You've got legs for arms."

Thor takes that as a compliment. He gestures at the half empty Heineken in Clint's hands. "I'll have one of those."

"So, you want a bottle?" Rocket asks.

Clint takes that as his cue to leave.

He tips Rocket generously (not for exemplary service or anything, but just for being Rocket) and pats Thor's arm, then wanders away from the bar. Sure, it would've been easy enough to hit Brandon, but it would've made it into a whole thing. Clint doesn't want a whole thing. He strays over towards the heavily crowded dancefloor, claiming a nearby empty booth as his own.

Tony sure knows how to throw a party, Clint has to give him that. It's bright and loud, with smoke machines and laser lights. _Of course_ it has a smoke machine. Everything about it is extravagant and impersonal and just like Tony Stark, but it's coming from a place of good intentions. It's a gesture. A gift. Clint's not complaining. He hasn't seen Tony since that incident on the balcony and doubts he'll see him for the rest of the night, knowing Tony.

For a second there, Clint swears he spots Pietro. He's in the middle of the dancefloor, looking slightly dishevelled: stripped out of his jacket, down to the black t-shirt and his aesthetically ripped jeans. Bucky and Darcy are keeping him company. But then he's gone, wisps of smoke linger in the spot where he was a second earlier.

It takes a long moment for Clint to realize that Pietro's approaching him. He must've noticed Clint watching.

"There you are, ljubavi."

Pietro drops into the space next to Clint, a hand going to the junction between neck and shoulder. He's a picture of bliss. Wide grin, messy hair, and big, gorgeous eyes.

 _Beautiful_.

"You ever gonna tell me what that means?"

"Guess." he says, giving Clint's shoulder a squeeze. Then he reaches for the nearly empty Heineken, long fingers curling around the neck of the bottle. "What do you think it means? Go on, guess."

"Not sure I want to."

"It isn't a _bad_ word." Pietro smirks, using air-quotes.

"Oh, yeah. Like I believe that."

Pietro shrugs, then drains the rest of the beer, tipping it back easily. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth once he's finished, a coy smile playing on his lips when he sets the bottle aside, as if to say: _sorry I finished the rest of your beer. Except I'm not really sorry._

It's oddly endearing. Domestic, even.

They've shared clothes, secrets, food. A bed. And now a bottle of Heineken. There's no one else that Clint wants to share that with - share any of it. Clothes, secrets, food, a bed, himself. He's stupidly, ridiculously happy.

And all because of a silly little gesture that doesn't even count, since Pietro probably isn't even aware he made it.

Clint's smile remains intact. It only grows, actually, when he follows Pietro's line of sight towards the dancefloor, to where Wanda's trying (and oh god, is she trying) to teach Vision how to dance properly. He looks out of place, his movements stiff and awkward, but he doesn't care, too delighted by Wanda's presence to be self-conscious. It's nice. Clint's never seen Wanda so unabashedly happy.

Part of him wonders if Vision's dancing badly on purpose, just to make Wanda laugh like that, one hand covering her face to hide her laughter, the other clutching at Vision's shoulder as she tries to walk him through it. Literally. But he keeps messing up, even steps on her toes, which she only seems to find more endearing.

"I like him."

"Who?"

"Viszh. He seem good. He is good for her. I like him."

Something about the booze and cigarettes makes Pietro's accent come out thicker and a lot more pronounced than usual, Clint's noticed, dripping into each word, blurring his vowels. He's even slipped back into his Sokovian tongue, throughout the course of the night, muttering quietly to himself. And to Wanda. His comments always seem to amuse her, drawing laughter from her that she's quick to smother behind her hand.

Clint eyes his boyfriend off dubiously. "Really?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I?"

The two couldn't be more different. Vision, in his sweater, breaking out ancient moves that are too old for either Maximoff twin to know. Clint's a little ashamed to admit that he knows most of them. All of them. Anyway, not the point. Pietro and Vision have next to nothing in common. But then again, neither do Clint and Vision, really. The only constant in each of their lives is Wanda.

Clint only wants her happiness.

And if that happiness comes in the form of a slightly weird, purple-sweater wearing British dude, then so be it.

"He's wearing a sweater." Clint says, stringing out each word slowly, to emphasize his point. "In a club. I mean-he's fine. Polite. Kinda weird, but hey, who isn't? He's nice, even in the sweater." then there's the whole eulogy thing, of course, but Clint's willing to forget that.

"Why do his clothes matter?"

"They don't."

"You are wearing old man jeans and I still like you."

Clint opens his mouth to protest.

He glances down at himself, confused, because these actually _aren't_ his old man jeans. No, these are his good ones. It takes a moment for Clint to realize that, per usual, Pietro's just trying to rile him up. He's practically shaking with silent laughter by the time Clint looks back up at him.

"Oh, you like me, do you? That's nice. Real cute."

"Da draga."

 _"Da."_ Clint says, testing the word out on his tongue. "Da dra- _ga_. How's that? Any good? Don't wanna make an ass of myself."

Pietro's eyes light up. "Very good." he nods approvingly, a hand going to Clint's thigh and squeezing gently. "I can teach you this weekend, yes? And you will be speaking it in no time, just like me."

"Just like you." Clint murmurs.

 _There's nobody like you,_ he thinks. Doesn't realize he's said it out loud until the hand on his thigh moves to his jaw, patting lightly. Instead of making a smartass comment or a terrible joke, Pietro simply leans in, kisses all of Clint's troubles away. The hand on his jaw slides around to the base of his neck, his fingers threading through the finer hairs there. It's a chaste kiss, over far too quickly.

"Well, yes." Pietro says, a little breathless, when he breaks away. "There is nobody like me. What else is new?"

Clint smirks, because it's true. The hand on his neck stays where it is. Pietro's thumb rubs circles into the soft skin there, something reverent about his touch. It's a soothing distraction.

"I-sorry. Forgot the question. You kiss me like that," Clint makes an airy gesture with his hands. "And it makes all the words disappear. They're gone, man. I don't remember where I am. How'd I get here? What year is it?"

"You don't remember?" Pietro quirks an eyebrow.

"Not even a little."

His voice is steadier now, slowly evening out. "That is such a shame." Pietro pouts, all faux innocence.

"Who are you? Are you my- _no_ , you're my boyfriend?" he catches Pietro's hand when he draws it away, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles, followed swiftly by another. "You're way too pretty to be my boyfriend. How'd I get so lucky to end up with somebody like you?"

Pietro feigns confusion, too, a smile playing on his lips. "I keep asking myself this same question."

"Oh, so you're a funny guy." Clint snaps his fingers, as if he's had some sort of incredible revelation. "It makes sense now. You're with me 'cause of my sense of humor. You wanna learn how to be funny, like me. So, what else should I know? How long have we been together? How'd we meet? I wanna know all that mushy stuff."

"A year and a half." Pietro decides, after a brief moment of deliberation. "We met at a bar, but it was nothing like this place. Much smaller. Less fancy."

"And, what? That's it?"

"And you couldn't keep your hands off me."

"That does sound like me." Clint muses. "So. Where do we live? That's assuming we live together."

"We live on a farm. I moved in a year ago."

"I always wanted to live on a farm."

Pietro's expression softens. "Your wish came true."

There's no denying that. Ever since he was little boy, he wanted a farm, to build a house with his own two hands. He'd have something to show for himself. It didn't have to be fancy, just big. Wide, open spaces. Lots of green. _Quiet_. Calm in a way that his childhood home never quite was.

"We're happy? I mean, things moved fast. Dated for half a year, then you moved in. We're still good?"

"Yes, of course." Pietro pauses, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "It moved quickly, yes, but it was something we both wanted. Very much."

Clint swallows over the lump in his throat.

It's still fun, to play pretend at a life that Clint's had before. A life he might want to share with Pietro, one day, if that's even something he'd be interested in. But he's not so sure that it is. His grip on Pietro's hand is vice-like. He wants to remember all of it. The tight, warm feeling in his chest. The way Pietro looks against the neon-colored backdrop, bright streaks of light painting colors across his skin; blue, green, pink. A kaleidoscope of pretty lights.

"Tell me more about our life."

"We're happy. This is enough, yes?"

Clint nods, still playing along. He lets go of Pietro's hand and reaches for his beer, only to remember that it's all gone. In one swift movement, Clint shucks off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the booth, then settles in closer to Piero's side, an arm going up around the back of his shoulders. It's nice. Snug. Pietro's knee bumps into Clint's, every so often.

It's deliberate. Clint knows Pietro, by now. Knows him well enough to read his tells: there's something on his mind.

He seems restless, almost, in a way that he hasn't been all night. For the most part, Pietro's been relaxed, with a brightly colored beverage of some description in his hand. He's good at mingling - he talks with Clint's friends like he's known them for years, not hours - and can make small talk in a way that Clint never really took to. Pietro's sociable, pleasant, _charming_. Intelligent. Gorgeous. The list goes on and on and on. Clint's drawn to him, a moth to a flame. Just like everyone else seems to be.

Pietro bobs along to the lively, upbeat song that pours out of the speakers. He makes a point of putting his hand on Clint's knee, something he's been doing quite a lot over the course of the night: touching Clint. Warm, confident brushes of his hand against the nape of Clint's neck, the tender inside of his wrist, outside of his thigh, fingers grazing over the worn lines of Clint's palm. Pietro drums his fingers against Clint's kneecap in time with the beat, a sigh working its way out of his lungs.

The song blasting out of the speakers is familiar in that way where he might've heard it on the radio, once, but never went out of his way to listen to it.

 _When the nights are long_  
 _Longing for you to come home_  
 _All around the wind blows_  
 _We would only hold on to let go_

 _Blow a kiss, fire a gun_  
 _We need someone to lean on_  
 _Blow a kiss, fire a gun_  
 _All we need is somebody to lean on_

Pietro quickly grows impatient. His voice is barely audible over the music, but there's no mistaking the question. It hits Clint out of nowhere, really. He's pretty sure that if he had a drink, he would've choked on it.

Or spat it out.

Or something equally undignifying.

"Aren't you going to ask me about the sex?"

"What?"

"The sex."

"Right." Clint says. He doesn't say anything else, at first, then decides to address the elephant in the room. Kind of. "So, sex is-well, when you're young," he cuts himself off when Pietro groans.

Then hits him between the ribs with a bony elbow.

And it's not that Clint hasn't thought about it, because he has. He does. It's not that he hasn't noticed the way Pietro looks at him. Clint's very aware of the looks, the touches, soft, gentle, curious. That hand on his ass earlier wasn't exactly subtle. But then again, Pietro doesn't do subtle, he never has ("Cowboy," he said, earlier that morning, when Clint was clad in nothing but a sheet. "I can think of plenty of things to do in twenty for minutes, or less"). Then there was the whole Baskin-Robbins incident. Pietro's attempt at seduction in a public bathroom.

 _"Is it working?"_

 _"Why don't we get outta here and find out?"_

Of course, they walked outside and straight into Laura.

Clint holds out a placating hand. "Just hear me out, yeah? It's not always the most important thing in a relationship. I used to think it was, back when I was your age. It's still, y'know, something I'm interested in. Trust me, I've thought about it. I think about it. About us. But I didn't want to rush into it. You can't undo it and that can complicate things."

"We don't have to, not if you don't want to." Pietro decides. He makes a point of holding Clint's gaze. "And if you don't ever want to, then this is also fine. You were right. There are more important things, like us."

"No, Piet, that's not it." Clint sighs, shaking his head. The words keep getting all jumbled up in his head. "I do want to. When the time's right. And so far, it hasn't been."

Pietro pulls a face, like he agrees.

"Babe, I have an idea. Kiss me." Clint says. When all Pietro does is fix him with a dubious look, Clint elaborates: "I wanna forget we ever had this conversation, so kiss me. I don't need to remember any of this. Especially the part where I put my foot in my mouth."

"I think it is sweet."

"Really?"

"Mhm." Pietro hums. "I like that you were honest."

"Well, yeah." Clint says.

Like it's that simple. It _is_ that simple, actually.

Pietro sits up, then combs both hands back through his sweat-dampened hair. Bits stick to his forehead in places, while other strands curl slightly around his temples and the base of his neck. Then he leans in and pecks Clint on the lips, pulling away before the kiss can deepen.

"There."

Frowning, Clint's eyes dart around the room. He moves, as if to sit up, but doesn't climb to his feet just yet. "Where am I? What year is it?" he asks, pulling an amused smile from Pietro. "Are you my-no, you're my boyfriend? Mine?"

"Yes, but not for much longer." Pietro teases, bumping his shoulder against Clint's. "This is not so funny the second time around, old man."

Clint scoffs, mildly offended. "Yeah, okay. Sure. How long have we been together? Wait, lemme guess. I'm good at guessing. I'd say about a year and a half. Maybe two?"

"Three years," Pietro sniffs. "And five months."

"I was close."

"What else do you remember, hm?"

Clint feigns confusion, for a moment. "We live in the city. No, we _lived_ there, but moved to the country for a quieter life. Oh, and the sex is amazing. Best sex I've ever had."

"I think you still owe me a dance." Pietro says, matter-of-factly, looking far too smug for Clint's liking. It's not up for debate. He jerks his chin in the direction of the crowded dancefloor. "What do you say, cowboy? Do you think you are up to it? After all, you do owe me one. Remember?"

Oh, _that._ He did kind of use Natasha as an excuse earlier, dragging Pietro away from the dancefloor, over to meet an old friend. And it worked, sure, but then it wore off. A look from Pietro is all it takes to get Clint well and truly to his feet. He sighs, like it's a hardship, when that couldn't be further from the truth.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure we can work something out."

"Come." Pietro says, gently tugging on Clint's hand. This close, he smells like sweat and smoke, and faintly of beer.

He looks gorgeous, his blue eyes impossibly bright. Clint follows willingly, accompanied by the sound of his friends (it's just Bucky, actually) whooping and calling out loudly after them, _very_ drunk and encouraging.

* * *

Somehow, the dancefloor is more crowded than it looks. The music is loud, but not terrible. Clint guesses he could say the same about the company. He can't complain, not when Pietro keeps turning to glance back at him, grinning widely, looking very much like he knows something Clint doesn't. It would hardly be the first time.

Pietro wants to dance. It's either that or slam down shots, he tells Clint. An ultimatum. In all honesty, Clint's not sure if he can keep up with Pietro and his twenty-five year old enthusiasm for alcohol. Sure, he likes a drink, but doesn't want to drink himself blind, like last year. Clint loses his grip on Pietro's hand, somewhere along the way, and has to elbow his way through the crowd to find him again.

Which isn't too hard. _Silver Boy,_ Sam had said.

His hair stands out. Clint exhales, glad to have found him in the sea of unfamiliar faces. The strobe lights dangling from the ceiling send bursts of color shooting across the room, lighting up Pietro's skin, painting him in shades of dull green and bright purple.

"Try to keep up, old man." Pietro says, with a sly smile.

Then he next song kicks in.

Clint really, _really_ hates him. Sometimes. His cheeks hurt from smiling. And okay, fine, he doesn't hate Pietro. That's definitely not the word he'd use to describe the feeling in his chest right now.

Light and warm and nervous, but the good kind.

At least, he thinks it's the good kind. Part of him still feels out of place. Of course, the vodka shots helped, as did the bottles of beer and the pretty cosmoplitans. But then he looks over at Pietro and he feels less out of place, feels more like this is where he's supposed to be. Pietro starts dancing, a grace to his movements that Clint hasn't ever seen before.

He's a natural, swaying along easily, all lithe and fluid and perfectly at ease. Clint tries to emulate that. The key word being: tries. It's hard, to know what to do, how to be, when crammed in the middle of a dancefloor, surrounded by a sea of grinding, swaying bodies.

Clint nearly feels claustrophobic, for a moment there, but is quick to forget all about that when he catches another glimpse of Pietro: shrouded in pale blue light, waving his arms up above his head. Light bounces off his bruised face, making it look even worse, if possible. Clint shakes those nasty thoughts away.

"Did you forget how to dance, cowboy?" Pietro asks. The words aren't lost to the beat. "Am I that good of a kisser? Go on, dance. I want to see your moves."

Kind of rude. Clint would've been offended, if it wasn't for the way Pietro said it (like he says almost everything, it's warm and light-hearted, with an inherent playfuness). He keeps watching Clint, too, eyes glued to his face. So, Clint starts dancing. Properly. He doesn't just sway, like he had did earlier. There's something almost pleased in Pietro's gaze as it sweeps over Clint.

"There you go." he nods approvingly. "Yes, you are not so bad. We will see if you can keep it-"

"Just shut up and dance."

It's easy enough to get lost to the beat, to the intoxicating atmosphere, the way Pietro's eyes drag over him. A blur of unknown faces swarm around them and Clint doesn't care, just this once. He focuses on that feeling, shedding all lingering anxiety in a heartbeat. There's a flow to his movements that wasn't there before.

Long strands of hair fall across Pietro's face, spilling into his eyes. Pietro drags a hand back through his pale locks, slicking it down, but it won't stay. Not for long, anyway. Pietro's hair has a life of its own. He still manages to look cool, somehow, dancing along easily like it's all part of the plan.

Maybe it is.

Clint manages to keep up.

An electric sensation creeps over his skin, eliciting a wave of goose bumps, when Pietro touches him, winding both arms loosely around Clint's neck, pulling him closer.

He doesn't stick around for long. Multi-colored lights swirl overhead, bouncing off walls, casting an iridescent glow across the room. Pietro's eyes are almost comically wide, when the next song starts playing. He unwinds his arms from Clint's neck, a coy smile toying with the corners of his mouth. It's like he's dancing badly on purpose, now, just to amuse Clint and make him laugh.

 _Just like Vision and Wanda._

But he's still not a terrible dancer, even now. Typical. Of course, even when Pietro's trying to look bad, he looks incredible, looks like he's having the time of his life. Clint's not a bad dancer either, except when he wants to be.

"Hey, I know this song." Clint says. Or, shouts. "Well, this one's different. But I know the old song."

"This one is also good, yes? Yes."

Tracy Chapman's version was different. Better, at least to Clint. Still, this one isn't so bad. It's upbeat, catchy, with lows and highs that are easy to dance to. In the middle of the song, the DJ makes an announcement that most likely involves alcohol, judging by the number of guests that trickle off the dancefloor and towards the bar.

Pietro doesn't leave him alone for very long. He hooks a finger into the loop of Clint's jeans, tugs him closer. Clint doesn't resist. They move together nicely. In the moment, it feels intimate, despite being surrounded. No one gives them any attention and Clint's glad for it.

This time is different, he knows. It's different to when they danced in a run-down dive bar on the outskirts of town, to a melody that Clint's known for years. _Tension_ , he thinks.

And then Pietro kisses him, more or less confirming that he feels it, too. Clint forgets all about the party, the pile of presents stacked up on a table in the corner, the crowd of unfamiliar faces surrounding them, the almost-kiss with Tony. It all goes quiet. Clint's lost in the feeling of Pietro's lips, sweet and slightly tangy against his own. There's an urgency to the kiss that has Clint's head spinning, makes him clutch at Pietro's waist and pull him in closer.

Clint's world narrows down to _that_ hand on his shoulder, clutching for purchase. The slide of their mouths against each other. His hands bunched up in the fabric of Pietro's shirt.

A second announcement fills the room, loud enough that it both startles and sobers Clint. He reluctantly pulls away, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Pietro, to see the way his eyes slowly flutter open.

The smile on his lips is warm and fond, and only a little devious. Clint's not too worried.

"Wanna get some air?"

"Air? This is not exactly what I had in mind," Pietro muses, always a joker. "But it is not so bad. We should-"

"Piet!" a voice calls.

It's Wanda, followed by a bashful looking Vision. Smiling, she loops an arm through Pietro's, sidling up beside him, while Vision talks about the success of the party and how he already knows Tony (was previously employed by him. For what, Clint's not sure, and he doesn't care). Vision's pleasant enough and he doesn't make any grim speeches, which makes Clint like him just that little bit more.

"Dance with me." Wanda insists, tugging on her brother's arm. "Please. I haven't seen you all night."

Clint knows from experience how difficult it is to say no to Wanda. After all, she's a sweetheart. But that doesn't stop Pietro, who gives her a firm shake of head and untangles himself from, a semi-apologetic smile on his face.

"We were in the middle of something," Pietro explains, his gaze sliding to Clint. "Weren't we?"

"Yeah, but-"

"There, you heard him." Wanda interrupts. "It can wait."

"I don't want to dance." _with you_ , goes unspoken.

Pietro kindly leaves that bit out.

But it still feels awkward. Clint intervenes. He hates to see Wanda looking equal parts annoyed and crestfallen. "Hey, how 'bout you dance with me instead? I'll try to keep off your toes and you can _not_ kill your brother."

"Yes," Vision says. "An excellent idea, Clint."

The song isn't exactly right for slower dancing, but they make it work. Clint takes Wanda's hand, gives her a twirl and makes her laugh in that way of hers; it's as if she's surprised by the sound of it. It's like bells, to Clint's ears. He catches Pietro's eye over her shoulder, his gaze full of warmth and longing and maybe an extra bit of happiness that wasn't there before. It's from seeing Clint interact so smoothly with Wanda. That's a feeling Clint remembers.

In typical Tony Stark fashion, a billowing white canopy is untied (it had been secured up high, like a hammock) and confetti rains from the ceiling. Clint spots Tony across the room. He holds Clint's gaze, lifts his glass in salute, then goes back to mingling. Clint looks for Pietro next.

Just over Wanda's shoulder, with pieces of delicate silver and gold confetti stuck to his skin and tangled up in his hair, Pietro mouths: _happy birthday_ , followed by a wink and a thousand-watt smile.

There's no cake, no candles, no song. No speech. But he doesn't need any of that, he doesn't want it, only this: love. It's there in the way Pietro watches him, with so much warmth and familiarity that Clint's taken aback. It's there in the way Steve pulls him aside, a hand on his shoulder to steady him. And in Nat's fond smile, in Wanda's laugh, Sam's company, Bucky's wolfish grins and shitty jokes. And, of course, it's in Tony's well-intended gesture. Clint's heart has never felt fuller.

* * *

 **A/N:** hello! sorry, this chapter took much longer to finish than anticipated. I hate writing dancing scenes (ha. it was a great idea to write a birthday party based at a club, right?) soo I kept putting it off. and then a very terrible thing happened yesterday, so I decided to post, hoping that this chapter might bring a handful of people some joy.

this will be the last party-centric chapter, with Clint and Pietro's lovely weeked now approaching. It's 8k of unbeta'd fluff n feelings.

it's not much to offer right now, I know. I still hope it manages to help. all my love & well wishes ❤

Translations:

 **Više kao tri:** Three of us.  
 **Ljubav:** Love.  
 **Da Draga:** Yes Dear


	34. Chapter 34

SAT 13 JUNE

Clint plops down onto the stairs with a drawn out groan, hands curling around his knees. He's followed by Pietro, who stumbles up the path, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Five minutes earlier, the Uber dropped them off at the mailbox. Clint's been struggling to find his keys ever since. It doesn't make any sense. Wanda sent them off, made sure Clint had his essentials: phone, wallet, keys. And, of course, his boyfriend. Still, here he sits.

In the early hours of the morning.

A little light-headed, blinking up at the star-speckled sky, with only a wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. He can feel the corners digging into his ass.

For the zillionth time, Clint pats down his pockets, only to come back empty-handed.

Pietro's having the time of his life, at least. He's trying to walk in a straight line, arms held out like the wings of a plane. That goes about as well as expected. So, not very. He staggers and nearly loses his balance, twice, before toppling over. It's all pretty ungraceful. He seems to find it amusing, laughing quietly to himself before sitting up.

"Why are we not going inside?" he asks, blinking owlishly at Clint from his spot in the gravel.

"Lost my keys."

"Oh."

"And my phone."

"Where?" Pietro frowns.

 _Probably in the Uber,_ Clint thinks. If he knew where the keys were (or his phone) then they wouldn't be lost, but that seems to escape Pietro in his booze-addled state.

"Beats me, kid. Don't know what I did with 'em."

"Does that mean we have to sleep out here?"

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. It takes a little bit more effort for Pietro to climb to his feet, much more than it did to tumble over. Soon enough, he finds his way over to the stairs, collapsing next to Clint with a small sigh.

"I don't want to sleep outside."

"What? No, we're not doing that. We won't. I'll just," Clint trails off, waving a hand vaguely. "I'll scale it. The side of the house. Find a ladder or break a window, and we're in. We'll figure it out. Hey, don't give me that look."

His eyes glisten with amusement, but his expression is all faux innocence. "What look?"

"That one. The look on your face right now."

Smirking, Pietro placatingly holds up both hands. "There is no look, old man. I think you are very drunk, and this is making you suspicious. This is just my face."

"I could _so_ climb the house."

Pietro doesn't say a world, but he doesn't need to. That silent laughter, so poorly hidden behind his hand, says it all. Yeah, Clint knows. He remembers that one time he fell off a house. Vividly remembers. It wasn't all that long ago. His fingers twitch unpleasantly at the memory, still balled into loose fists around his knees. Clint spares a sideways glance in Pietro's direction. He's tapping away on a phone, face shrouded in dull blue light. The bruises are far more prominent, his cheekbones shadowed and gaunt.

"Be careful," Clint says. _And don't fall off any buildings,_ he thinks. A warning that shouldn't really need to be voiced.

"Me?" Pietro asks, mildly affronted.

He doesn't even break away from the iPhone, eyes intent, fingers working fast on the keypad. It takes a moment for Clint to realize that Pietro is using _his_ iPhone. So, it isn't lost. That's good, at least. Clint blames the alcohol for making his head all fuzzy. His thoughts are slower to form, slower to grow into something remotely coherent.

"You are the one that lost the keys, old man. Not me." he continues. "Wanda said to check your pockets again, just to be sure."

"Wanda said that."

"I text her."

"Oh."

"Sooo," he drawls. "Check them. Your pockets."

Clint nods along, more to himself than to Pietro, because _great idea._ It's not like he didn't already think of that. Clint pats down both pockets, fingers brushing over the soft suede fabric. A sudden realization prompts Clint to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. In between catching his breath, he wipes at the corners of his eyes.

"Did you find them?" Pietro asks, voice a little slurred. His shoulder knocks against Clint's. "Or did you forget where the pockets are? Come here, I will check them for you. I will find them." he snakes an arm around Clint's waist.

A large hand dips into the closest pocket, curling around nothing but air. He stretches over to check Clint's other pocket, just to be certain. It's empty. Pietro huffs in mild annoyance and withdraws his hand.

"You won't find 'em." Clint says.

"Why not? And what is so funny, hm?"

"I'm wearing your jacket."

Pietro draws back with an incredulous smile. He gives Clint a once-over, lips pursed together tightly. And then he's laughing, too, so hard that he's shaking with it. "That _is_ my jacket." he slips a hand into the pocket of his own jacket-no, not his. Clint's. "How did I get this? Why do I have it on?"

That's definitely Clint's jacket.

A vague memory comes back to Clint, of switching in the Uber. The jingle of keys as Pietro dangles them in front of his face pulls Clint back into the present, mind still a little (or, _very_ ) hazy from all of the booze.

He barely remembers climbing out of the Uber, or most of the journey home. Sure, he remembers leaving and the chorus of well wishes that followed them out to the curb. Wanda kissed him on the cheek, shoved him in the car, shoved Pietro in after him, then gave the driver the address and sent them off.

 _Home._

Clint's farmhouse, not a tiny shoebox apartment.

The ride to the farm was short-lived. He spent most of it staring out the window, gathering up his thoughts and drunkenly reflecting on what was mostly an incredible night. But he does remember pieces, like Pietro's hand on his thigh. The song pouring out of the radio that he quietly whistled along to. A line of trees, blurring into the darkness.

And then the whole trading jackets thing.

Clint's not sure what brought it on, but he doesn't care. His jacket looks much smaller, and somehow better, on Pietro, tight-fitting and snug. It'll probably even smell like him after, so Clint's definitely not complaining. Not even a little. He runs his eyes over Pietro appreciatively.

The keys are cold as Pietro presses them into his palm.

He doesn't pull his hand away, fingers brushing against the inside of Clint's palm, the crease of his wrist, grazing his cheekbone. A feather-light touch. Then, of course, he licks his thumb and wipes at a spot on Clint's jaw.

"Wanda's lipstick," he says. "All gone."

"Thanks." Clint manages, flustered.

Pietro kisses him.

It isn't exactly unexpected, but Clint still makes a small noise of surprise against Pietro's mouth. A hand curls around his. The bundle of metal keys digging into Clint's palm suddenly feels less cold now with that large hand wrapped around his. Pietro's lips are warm and soft, and he tastes of vodka and Bucky's cigarettes.

This kiss somehow feels like their first.

Clint's warmly reminded of glittering carnival lights and a blueberry snowcone. A hand on his jaw. Sitting on a hill, tearing pieces of cotton candy apart, trading stories and snapping pictures. The flutter of nerves in his stomach, and that tight feeling in his ribcage; _thump thump thump,_ as if his heart might burst out of his chest. That was new.

It's still there, even now.

A breeze washes over them, bringing a little clarity with it. Clint breaks away, allows the cold air to sober him up, clear his mind. He watches as Pietro does the same, shutting his eyes against the wind. With his head tilted towards the sky, he looks peaceful. Or, maybe he's just really wasted. A bit of both, Clint thinks. Definitely both.

"To i nije tako loše." Pietro says.

Quiet and hushed, like it's not meant for Clint's ears. The words are nearly swept away with the wind, before Pietro belatedly remembers that Clint's not fluent in Sokovian, and he kindly translates. He blinks, eyes slowly opening.

"This is nice. Your home."

"Yeah? Thanks. It is."

"I wanted to tell you something." he says. And whether it's intentional or not, Clint doesn't know, but Pietro's grip on his hand tightens. "I still want to, but not tonight."

Clint sighs, his mind drawn back to thoughts of Tony and that almost-kiss. "Yeah. Me too. But whatever it is, it can wait."

There's movement beside him as Pietro shifts and drops his head onto Clint's shoulder. His eyes are heavy-lidded, fixed on a far off spot in the distance. The stars, maybe. Clint sighs. This time, for a different reason. Pietro looks like he's seconds away from falling asleep, so after a moment, after Clint feels like he's soaked enough of it in, he kisses Pietro's temple and moves to stand.

"C'mon. Let's get you to bed."

Pietro lifts his head, bits of hair swept across his face. A couple strands poke up in odd directions. "I thought you would never ask."

In his current state, Clint needs to rely on Pietro to do _everything_. Walk. Navigate his way from the stairs to the front door. An arm winds tight around his middle, and honestly, it's the only thing keeping him upright. Pietro's still wobbly and pretty off balance. Eventually, after only a small delay, they make it. Clint laughs, because moving in unison with Pietro is like competing in a three-legged race while seriously wasted. There's no coordination to it whatsoever.

"You will show me around tomorrow, yes?" Pietro asks.

Clint jams the key in the lock and twists.

 _Wrong key._

"Yeah, sure. There's not much to see," he says. "But yeah, I'll take you around. Whatever you wanna do."

Clint's pretty sure that he's going to regret that in the morning, but he doesn't linger on it. The keys stick, twice, and Clint nearly trips over the Puma gym bag that Pietro left out in the hall, and none of it is even close to perfect, but this is home and Pietro's here so Clint doesn't mind. Even if he did almost break his neck on Pietro's stupid bag, only for the younger man to catch him at the very last minute, a vice-like grip on his forearm to keep him from falling over and dying. He could've died, and when he says as much, Pietro simply waves him off.

"You thirsty? Want anything?"

"Bed."

"Bed." Clint agrees, nodding.

The hallway is pitchblack, so he flicks a light on.

Lucky's snoring. Apart from that, all is quiet and calm, a striking contrast to the laser lights and thundering bass inside Stark's clubhouse. Pietro leaves Clint's side, with a faint smile on his lips. He doesn't stray far, taking only a step or two through into the living room, which is right off the hallway. It isn't much to look at, not of a night, but Pietro seems to enjoy himself.

With his mind still fuzzy from all the booze, it takes Clint twice as much time and effort to climb up the staircase. Pietro's behind him, a bag in one hand, humming quietly to himself. It strikes a chord of familiarity with Clint, but he can't place it, so he pushes forward. He leads the way up the stairs and down the hall, stopping by the guest bedroom

Pietro arches an eyebrow at him.

"This isn't your room."

"Yeah. I mean, no. No, it isn't."

"Then why did we stop?"

"I didn't wanna assume that we'd, y'know, be sleeping in the same bed. Together. That we'd sleep together." Clint winces. He's very aware of his ramblings.

Pietro considers that. He wrinkles his nose, then reaches for Clint's hand. "Mm. Let's go to bed."

"O-kay. Bed."

"Yours, not this one. I don't want to sleep alone."

A soft orange glow fills Clint's bedroom. The lamp by the bed is the only source of light, apart from the moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Clint pulls them across. He shucks off Pietro's jacket and kicks off both shoes. Most of the night is lost to him; even now, he's too tipsy to feel self-conscious about his house, unfinished and a little messy, and not completely furnished. It's a work in progress. Stacks of boxes, full of Laura's stuff, and junk that Clint needs to either unpack or throw out. He'll get to it all eventually. Someday.

He collapses onto the bed, doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the mattress dips beside him. _So, this is real_ , he thinks. Pietro's still in his boots and ripped jeans, and Clint's leather jacket. He doesn't look comfortable, but he settles in all the same, eyelids already closed, and mouth slanted in a faint smile.

In this light, with the curtains pulled shut and the room mostly encased in darkness, Clint can hardly make out Pietro's features, only the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowly evens out and he starts to drift off. Clint carefully stretches for the lamp and switches it off, the bed only jostling slightly.

Clint falls asleep in minutes, fully clothed, starfished on the covers. Seconds before he blacks out, he swears he hears Pietro say something. It's so quiet that he's almost certain he's dreaming.

But he says it back, just in case.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you, brat."

* * *

Aspirin.

That's his first thought as he comes to. He wakes, alone, and-well, that's not entirely true, since Lucky's sitting on the bed. His paws are crossed over in a way that makes Clint feel like he's in for a lecture about sneaking out and breaking curfew. Slowly, he sits up. Lucky tilts his head to the side, considering Clint.

His ears flap with the movement.

"What is it, buddy?"

A high-pitched whine fills the air.

Lucky cries, again, probably out of sympathy. Then he's gone, bolting out of the bedroom.

To where, Clint can only guess. Something tells him that hybernating through this hangover won't be possible. He glances around, slowly gathering his bearings. Empty. A pile of clothes, scattered haphazardly on the floor. Socks and shirts turned inside out. Two pairs of boots, instead of just one. There's an aspirin pill and glass of water on the bedside stand, and the very sight of it makes Clint's heart sing.

Clint reaches for the pill, but freezes when he notices a piece of paper wedged under the corner of the glass and that barely legible scrawl that he recognizes from all of Pietro's drawings and his "Top Secret" messages on Snapchat. Beads of condensation dribble down the side of the glass, leaving droplet-sized stains on the paper, smudging the blue ink in places.

 _old man_

 _go downstairs when you read this_

 _:)_

 _\- piet_

The note is signed with a heart.

Somehow, he ended up under the covers, so Clint throws them back and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He swallows the pill down with a large gulp of water. The bed is empty, but Pietro's side still feels warm when Clint flattens his palm against the pale bedsheets.

With the curtains thrown open, soft morning light spills in through the window, painting delicte shadows across the floorboards.

A sudden vibration startles Clint.

He jumps up and away from the bed, climbing to his feet. Crouching down by the pile of clothes, he rifles through a pair of jeans, unzips the pockets on a leather jacket, until he finds his iPhone. Pietro went to bed fully dressed, just like Clint did. But unlike Clint, who is still in the clothes he wore to Stark's party, Pietro's outfit is discarded on the floor.

All of it. Every last article of clothing.

Clint sits cross-legged on the floor and skims over the list of notifications. The lockscreen is blowing up with text messages, old and new, with one dated all the way back to 3:48AM.

Most of the texts are from Bucky, and, weirdly enough, a few are from Rocket. Clint decides to read those much later, because just like everything Rocket says in real life, the texts are long-winded. And elaborate. He's able to gather that much from a quick glance. Two are from Steve; he's obnoxiously cheery, congratulating Clint on finding someone like Pietro, and he even invites them to brunch. Clint winces.

It's not really his thing, but he supposes The Brunch text was inevitable. He hasn't been in a steady relationship for a _really_ long time, and whenever he has been in one, Steve's insisted on a double-date. Most of the time, Clint lied his way out of it. But this is Pietro, and he's already told Clint several times how much he loves brunch.

[11:42AM]:

Thx. Not today man. Mayb

An alert pops up in the middle of Clint's reply. _10% of battery remaining._ He hits dismiss and sends off the text, once finished.

[11:44AM]:

Thx. Not today man. Maybe later...some of us r nursing hangovers. not doing so gd

When his phone beeps again, signalling that the battery has now dropped even lower, Clint plugs it into a nearby wall. He winces at the stiffness in his neck. A part of him is glad that Pietro isn't around, to witness him grumbling and complaining about his sore back, to hear his joints pop and click, and shift with each movement.

Clint stumbles down the hall and into the bathroom. It's not excessively hot today, but he's warm, so he peels his clothes off layer by layer, until he's stripped down to his boxer shorts. The t-shirt he wore to Stark's party reeks of alcohol and ends up in the hamper, along with his jeans and socks. He splashes his face with cold water, slips back into the bedroom to change into a plain V-neck, and is almost halfway down the stairs when he smells-

Smoke.

Yeah, that's definitely smoke. The kind caused by a fire. Clint rushes down the stairs and darts through the living room. Naturally, he slams his knee into a wooden table that he hasn't walked into, like _ever_. Not once. Of course, today has to be the day that he cripples himself on it, and ends up limping into the kitchen.

That's where he finds Pietro, casually buttering a slice of blackened toast. In an apron. With a huge, stupid grin on his face. Clint sighs. He's going to go prematurely gray, because of this kid.

A kid that just happens to be wearing Clint's bright red apron, with the words: _KISS THE COOK_ printed across the front of it in large, bold letters. Impossible to miss, and even more impossible to ignore. Clint steps further into the kitchen, sniffing. The air still smells faintly of smoke. Clint sniffs, again. It doesn't seem like anything is on fire.

Not in this room, at least.

That thought doesn't bring Clint much comfort.

"What?" Pietro asks, a hand on his hip. In the other hand, he's now holding a spatula.

Clint's not sure how he missed that before. It's from a set of utensils that he's never even used. A spatula.

For toast.

"Why can I smell smoke?"

"The toast is burnt." Pietro says, a touch sheepish. "But you like eggs, yes? Scrambled? Go on, sit."

"Oh, well, at least there's no fire. Pretty sure I just broke my knee," Clint says, limping towards the kitchen table. He drags out a chair and collapses into it. Okay, so his knee isn't broken, but it hurts. A lot. "Whatever. It's fine."

Pietro pulls a face, and yep, he's definitely pouting in a way that Clint's pretty sure is supposed to be mocking.

"Is somebody grump-"

"Not grumpy." Clint holds up a hand. "I'm not. I just need some coffee, and for my head to stop doing that thing it's doing. Y'know, with the nails. In the blender."

"Here," he says. "Drink this."

 _"Coffee?"_ Clint asks (actually, it's more of a squawk). "Oh, I knew there was a reason I liked you. This is it."

"No, it isn't."

"It might be."

A cup of steaming coffee is set down on the placemat in front of Clint. With only a little hesitation, Clint picks up the mug and brings it to his lips. The heat radiating from the sides of the cup alone is enough to warm him up.

Pietro goes back to the saucepan on the oven.

Clint considers the pros and cons of swallowing the cup of hot coffee all at once. But it will only end in tragedy, so he talks himself out of it. Once the caffeine kicks in, he becomes more of a person and less of a zombie.

"I got a question." Clint says, over the rim of his mug.

"Okay."

"You're makin' breakfast."

The apron is knotted tightly at his back, and underneath it, he's wearing clothes. A fresh change of clothes. So, he woke, showered. Probably. Clint's just guessing, because he looks _good_. There are no flecks of glitter on his skin, or pieces of confetti in his hair, whereas Clint still has traces of the party all over him; the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, the taste of an ashtray in his mouth. _Gross._

"Is that the question?" Pietro asks, throwing an amused look over his shoulder. "Well, yes, I _am_ making breakfast. I thought this would be very obvious, no?"

"No, that's not it. That's not the question?"

"Was that?"

"How are you so, well, _you._ After that much booze. You're up, makin' breakfast and coffee." Clint pauses, takes a sip of his drink. It's delicious and creamy, a mix of sugar and milk and rich coffee beans. "Blows my mind. I'm not even a real person 'til I've had my coffee."

With a slight pinch between his brows, Pietro considers that. Then he laughs. "What can I say? I'm happy."

Pietro dishes the scrambled eggs out onto two seperate plates. It's a large serving, piled up onto two slices of buttered toast. Burnt toast, but Clint doesn't mind. He's still trying to process _this_ , that Pietro is in his kitchen, wearing his apron, making him breakfast. Pietro sets a plate down in front of him, then a glass of orange juice. It still blows Clint's mind that he's so productive and lively, this early. Not that it's super early, actually, but it feels more like it's 7AM, not midday.

"There wasn't much in the fridge," Pietro says. "Or in the cupboards. But I did what I could, so eat, ljubavi. Before it goes cold."

"Yes, sir."

"How did you sleep? I didn't want to wake you."

"Fine, I think. Don't really remember."

It's all so domestic: sitting down for a meal, squeezed in at the kitchen table, knees brushing, drinking coffee and juice, and eating a hot breakfast. Somehow, it's exactly what he's been longing for.

"You look good in my apron." Clint says, picking up the cutlery that was neatly set out on the placemat.

He spears a piece of egg with his fork and pops it into his mouth. Silky and smooth, with hints of salt, pepper, and chives. Clint doesn't know where Pietro even got the chives from, but he doesn't ask. Maybe from the garden, not that Clint tends to it all that regularly. The toast is cold and burnt (the more appropriate word, he thinks, is charred) but still good. Clint chomps down on it eagerly, drinking swigs of juice once his coffee is all gone. Pietro offers to refill his cup, but Clint waves him off.

Firstly, because he's a guest.

Secondly, because Clint's almost thirty-five, not dead. He grabs the coffee jug and makes his way back over to the table. Out of habit, he nearly drinks straight from the jug, but then remembers that he has company. So, he fills his mug up to the rim like a civilized person would do, then carefully sets the jug aside.

"I look good in everything." comes Pietro's belated reply.

"Don't I know it."

Pietro smirks, his knee knocking against Clint's playfully under the table. It's replaced a second later by his hand, curling around Clint's kneecap. He squeezes, once, but doesn't pull his hand away immediately.

"Sorry about your knee, old man."

"It's fine."

"Your bones are so fragile," he says. "I had no idea. Next time, I will help you down the stairs."

Clint's laughter comes out as just a snort of amusement, at first. It isn't very dignified. "I didn't fall down the stairs, asshole. I broke my knee, running into a table, running to _you_. I thought my house was on fire."

"And you broke your knee?"

"Maybe."

"Something tells me you will be fine."

"It's funny," Clint smiles over the rim of his mug at Pietro, who looks sleepy and happy in the warm yellow light in Clint's kitchen. "I've got that same feeling. Apart from the broken knee, of course."

"Of course."

* * *

After breakfast, Clint goes for a shower. He's reluctant to leave. Breakfast was—sweet. Like a dream, but better, of course. _Way_ better. Clint smiles to himself. Day one, and it's already domestic bliss; until Pietro shoves him out of the kitchen. Clint needs to shower, apparently, because Pietro wants to go for a walk around the farm. The very second Clint opens his mouth, not even to protest, but to agree that _yeah, a shower sounds like a good idea,_ Pietro starts with the whole "but you promised. Last night, you said that you would show me around. You said we could do whatever I wanted. This is what I want."

Clint leaves.

But he might linger, just a little.

He catches glimpses of Pietro from the living room, then pauses by the stairs to steal a final look at the younger man, elbows-deep in soapy water, pale green gloves on and a bright red apron, smiling to himself.

Upstairs, he closes the bathroom door and strips off, but not before flicking the water tap on. _Hot._ Clouds of steam start fogging up the glass shower screen. He's in and out quickly enough, stepping under the spray of warm water, rinsing shampoo through his hair, a berry-scented gel all over his body.

It's not his, so it must belong to Pietro.

A dark green towel dangles off the hook next to Clint's, and it takes a moment for him to realize that it's Pietro's, that Pietro slept in his bed and used his shower, made himself at home. He cooked breakfast and put on Clint's apron as if he lives here, too, and isn't just staying for the weekend.

Clint smiles and swipes his own towel off the nearby row of hooks, wrapping it loosely around his waist.

He brushes his teeth, gargles a minty fresh mouthwash, skips the cologne, then heads for the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. The house is quieter, but it feels different, somehow, in a way that Clint can't quite put into words.

After 0.5 seconds of surveying the array of clothes in the walk-in, Clint sighs. He has nothing to wear, which isn't usually _that_ big of a deal. Usually. Plaid and denim are a timeless combination, in Clint's opinion. Sure, there are grease and paint stains on most of his shirts, but it's not as if he wears them out all that often, except for the odd job every now and again.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. Maybe all those times Natasha critiqued his wardrobe, she had a point.

The current selection leaves a lot to be desired.

It consists mostly of plaid, and wire hangers that don't actually have any clothes hanging from them. Clint sighs and flicks through a couple different shirts. He manages to pick out a pair of jeans that Pietro will still probably call his Old Man Jeans, just because he's a little shit like that.

Clint, so swept up in his thoughts (in picking out a stupid pair of jeans, and an equally stupid shirt, to impress his stupid boyfriend) doesn't even notice that he isn't alone. Pietro makes a point of clearing his throat, startling Clint enough that he jumps. It's an adjustment, to suddenly go from living alone to _not_ , even if it is just for a few days.

Even when he wasn't living alone, it still felt like it was just him. He and Laura slept in separate rooms, towards the end. Ate meals at different times, skirted around the edges of all uncomfortable conversations, dodged each other in the hallway. This is new, but the good kind. Clint wants to adjust to it.

Pietro's casually leaning up against the doorframe to the walk-in, arms folded across his chest.

"Jesus, kid. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know that those jeans," Pietro begins, nose wrinkling. "Won't go with anything in this closet."

"Ouch."

With an overexaggerated wince of pain, Clint places a hand over his heart. Pietro brushes him off with a sharp eye roll. There's a fondness there, tugging up the corners of his mouth. He pushes himself off the doorframe and steps into the walk-in. It's a little snug. Clint studies one of the nearest shirts: plaid. Green and blue. He rubs the dark fabric between his fingers and pulls on the loose threads, until Pietro comes back into his orbit.

The younger man stretches around him and picks out a plain blue baseball shirt. He eyes it off for a second, then passes it over to Clint.

"I like this one."

"You like it?"

"Yes. It goes with your eyes."

"It does? Well, I guess I better wear it."

He agrees to wear the t-shirt, if only to get Pietro out of the walk-in. The space is crammed enough already, and Clint's still pretty naked underneath that towel, last time he checked. Pietro moves around the bedroom, his gaze curious, but he doesn't touch anything. Maybe it's a fear of prying, or of intruding where he's not wanted, which simply isn't true. He _is_ wanted here. Clint pulls the shirt down over his head, view temporarily obstructed. When he next looks, Pietro is over by the desk, eyes skimming over the cluttered mess covering the wooden surface; scraps of paper and old photographs and a vase of dead flowers.

The glint of a silver picture frame catches Clint's eye. It must catch Pietro's attention, too, because he's drawn to it. He gingerly picks up the picture and runs his fingers along the edges, before gently setting it down again, a fond look on his face.

"Is this you? On the left?"

"Yeah."

"I could tell," Pietro says proudly. "From the eyes. I knew it was you. And the smile is the same. I _knew_ it."

"Yeah? Good for you, babe."

Pietro throws a glance over his shoulder at Clint, who is now fully dressed. The t-shirt feels soft and light against his skin, not as heavy as a thicker layer of plaid and an undershirt would have been. Without even crossing the distance between them, Clint knows every single detail of the photo that Pietro is looking at. He hasn't moved the pictures in months. Years, even, for some of them. He tries to not stare _too_ obviously, and instead fidgets with the hem of his shirt, then the sleeves; he'd roll them up to the elbows, if it weren't already a 3/4 cut.

The jeans are a little faded and worn, covered in flecks of dried paint from all of Clint's unfinished projects, which makes them perfect for an afternoon walk through the woods. At least he isn't wearing plaid. This way, Pietro can't make any bad jokes about lumberjacks.

"Who is this with you?" Pietro asks.

"That's me and my brother." Clint says, combing a hand back through his still damp hair. "We'd just signed up. To the Circus, not army." _no, that came later in life for Barney. Much later._

"You look—"

He trails off.

"Different?" Clint asks. He drapes the fluffy white towel around his neck, then joins Pietro, coming to stand off to his right. "Young? I was."

"I was going to say happy."

"Oh."

There were plenty of happy times. Clint steps closer and picks the frame up off the desk, running the tips of his fingers along the edges of it reverently. It's a good shot; arms wrapped around shoulders. Wide, toothy grins, and dirty clothes. Dressed in suspenders, of all things. Two kids, trying to make the best out of a bad couple years. It had been Barney's birthday, Clint thinks, or maybe it was his own. The memory is faded and difficult to latch onto.

Clint clears his throat, setting the photo back down onto the desk. "I was. We were."

"I would like to hear about it. All of it." Pietro says, one of his hands reaching for Clint's. He squeezes, once, then loops their fingers together. _Together_. "Someday."

* * *

A mile out from the house, it rains.

The ground turns soggy and wet beneath Clint's boots. Lucky, of course, is ecstatic. Pietro is less pleased. After all, he's wearing his _nice_ shoes (why he wore them for an afternoon trek through the woods, Clint doesn't know). A pair of Adidas high tops. Loved, impeccably white and pristine, apart from a few scratches and marks.

Until now.

Flecks of mud are splattered across the shoes, much to Pietro's horror. He tries, and fails, to stay on the drier bits of land as they head back towards the house, but the rainfall only grows heavier. Clint unhooks Lucky off his leash and follows the dog home.

It rains and it's beautiful, the sky still immensely blue and dotted with clouds. A sunshower.

"Clint," Pietro begins. "My _shoes._ "

"That's a real tragedy."

"Clint."

"You want me to carry you back, don't you? I'm not doing it." he says. Then, unable to stop himself, adds: "My back just isn't what it used to be, kid."

Pietro doesn't make fun of him, at least. Well, only a little. He goes on and on for a good ten minutes, listing all the reasons why Clint should carry him back: because it's chivalrous. Romantic. _Selfless._ Gracious.

A slew of Old Man jokes follow shortly after.

Half a mile out, Pietro slips and tumbles over. He lands on an awkward angle and nearly brings Clint down with him, since the two were very much attached, fingers tightly woven together. Pietro presses a hand against his ankle and winces. It could be from the fall, the fact that he is now covered in mud, or because his pretty shoes are ruined.

Maybe it's all three.

At first, Clint's skeptical, convinced that this is some sort of ploy. A way for Pietro to ensure that he'll be carried home. But in those first few moments, his expression is too pained, too genuine and hurt, to be an act.

Clint's by his side in a heartbeat.

"Lemme get a look. So, all the bones are still inside your body. I think that's a good sign, right? That's good news." Clint says. More to himself, really, as he crouches in the mud next to Pietro and gingerly rolls up his pant leg, just enough to get a better look. "Oh. This is so much worse than I thought. Way worse."

"How bad is it?"

"Might have to amputate."

 _"Ass."_

Clint winds an arm around Pietro's waist. "I think it's just a minor sprain. Maybe. I'll be able to get a better look at home. C'mon, let's get you on your feet."

"I don't think I can stand."

"But you can still hop, right?"

On the count of three, Clint hauls Pietro up, up, eliciting a small groan of pain from the younger man. He's a mess; a smear of mud across his cheek, silver hair damp from the rain and curling around his temples, mud and leaves sticking to him all over. Pietro tests out the ankle, which was never a good idea, really. He yelps and immediately recoils, leaning against Clint's side.

"I got you." Clint says, carefully navigating the first step.

It isn't a very brisk walk, but eventually, after only a small amount of struggle and light-hearted bickering, the farm comes into view. Pietro seems reluctant about sagging completely against Clint's side, stubborn and determined that he can still walk on his own.

Clint untangles himself from Pietro's side, bends a little at the knees, and hopes that he'll take the hint.

He doesn't.

"You wanted to be carried. So, climb on."

"I thought you said-"

"Hop on."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Quickly, before I change my mind."

Pietro jumps on and _okay_ , so he's actually much heavier than he looks. Thankfully, there isn't much distance left between them and the house, only lots and lots of mud. The rain eases up, enough that Clint feels less like a deer on ice. He carries Pietro all the way to the porch stairs, then helps him inside, an arm tightly curled around his waist for support. Lucky's already inside, his muddy paw prints tracked all throughout the kitchen. Clint pulls out a chair for Pietro, then starts rifling around the cupboards for a cloth to wrap around the ice bag.

He sits on the floor in front of Pietro and rolls up his pant leg again, carefully removing his mud-speckled high tops before icing the injured ankle. A mild sprain, most likely. The ankle feels tender, Pietro tells him. And stiff, but the pain isn't unbearable. Clint sits for fifteen minutes and holds the ice bag to Pietro's ankle.

Then he runs a bath.

Not for himself, no, he'll shower afterwards. The bath is for Pietro, the water warm and bubble-filled. Pietro strips off, leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Clint nearly excuses himself, wanting to give Pietro privacy. But when he turns to leave, Pietro insists that he stay, so he does. He catches a brief glimpse of Pietro's torso as he lowers himself into the tub, already half submerged in the bubbles. A glimpse of fading bruises and grazes; a reminder that, given time, bad things can heal and fade.

Clint sits with his back against the tub, after that.

"You could've just asked me to carry you back. This all seems a little elaborate." Clint says, and he can hear the smile in Pietro's voice, he doesn't need to turn around to picture what it looks like. Cold water trickles down the back of his neck as Pietro flicks it at him.

"I did ask."

"You're heavier than you look. I guess it's all the muscle."

"And you are much slower."

"I'm not the one they call Quicksilver."

"Clearly."

Clint scoffs, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at Pietro; his eyes are shut, his head tipped back, wet hair sticking to his face in streaks. He's surrounded by soft, white bubbles. A faint, peaceful smile lingers on his lips. Of course, the moment slips away when Pietro sends a small wave in Clint's direction—splashing him not once, not twice, but three times. _Three._

"That's real mature." Clint says, but he's smirking, mouth tugging up at the corner. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

His eyes are open, now, and gleaming with amusement. Clint's dripping, his shirt far beyond damp and clinging to him. Pietro leans over to kiss him, still grinning, and Clint loses himself in it, a hand gripping the side of the tub. Water spills over the side and onto the floor, onto Clint, but he doesn't mind.

The rest of the afternoon is spent indoors, safely out of the rain. Pietro dozes with his head in Clint's lap. His hair is still damp as Clint reverently runs his fingers through it, and his foot is elevated, hanging off the end of the couch. It's all a bit surreal, like a dream, but his dreams never felt this good. After his catnap, Pietro rolls over onto his back and smiles up at Clint sleepily, then stifles a yawn behind the back of his hand.

A guilty look sweeps across his face.

"I ruined the walk."

"By falling over?"

"Yes."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be silly. I hate walking, so you did me a big favor." Clint says. "This is better. But if you want, we'll go again in a day or two."

"We will?"

"Yeah, of course. There's still time."

Pietro stretches up to cup Clint's jaw and kisses him, a hand lingering on his jaw, even when he pulls away. "A day or two?" he asks. "You want me to stay here for that long? I thought you might have plans.

"I do." Clint nods. "With you, dummy. I'm all yours."

"For the next two days, at least."

"Exactly."

"What about your friends?"

Clint rubs at his temples, then drops a hand to Pietro's hair again, softly carding through the pale curls. "What about them?"

"Don't you have plans with them? Birthday plans?"

"You're my friend." Clint says. "I have plans with you."

A coy little smile tugs on Pietro's lips. He rolls back over onto his side and settles in for a movie of Clint's choice, because they both still have pretty bad nightmares after Snowpiercer. Clint scrolls through the Netflix menu and skips over a dozen movies, tempted to throw Hellboy I or II on. Eventually, he selects one of Pietro's favorites. The movie also happens to be a favorite of Clint's, too.

Dinner is pizza, obviously. Pizza and a couple bottles of beer. Pietro gives Lucky a slice, then another, which only strengthens their bond. Lucky is smitten, his tail wagging excitedly whenever Pietro feeds him pizza and pats him and scratches that sweet spot behind his ear. Once it's obvious that neither of them are going to make it to the end of Legally Blonde, Clint closes Netflix and settles in more comfortably on the couch.

He puts on a music channel called _Nothing But Classics_ and falls asleep with Pietro in his arms, to the sound of Lucky snoring lightly and the heavy downpour of rain, to a classic that Pietro is definitely too young to know, but Clint knows all too well.

 _and can you teach me how to dance real slow / well I know that you're in love with him, 'cause I saw you dancing in the gym_

* * *

 **A/N:** soooooorry. I'll be a bit more speedy with the updates from now on. I hope 2017 is kind to you all ❤

Translation:

 **To i nije tako loše:** This is not so bad.


	35. Chapter 35

Clint | _Bucky_ | **Wanda**

* * *

MON 15 JUNE

 _[7:54PM]:_

 _wyd tonite?_

 _[7:59PM]:_

 _barton? ?_

* * *

He's late.

Thirty five minutes late.

Clint keeps throwing furtive glances over his shoulder at the clock nailed up high on the wall. It ticks by slowly, in a way that almost feels like it's mocking him. He's really not even that worried. After all, this is a dish he's thrown together dozens of times before, with much less time to do it in. The sauce (which is full of garlic and mushroom, and delicious crispy bacon) is simmering uncovered on the stove. It's not rocket science, but it can still be a little touchy. Clint can't stop fussing over it.

The very last thing he wants is overcooked pasta.

Well, actually, the very last thing he wants is for Pietro to have slipped over. Again. It isn't raining anymore, so the ground isn't muddy and damp, but it's been an hour, and Pietro said he would only be gone for half that time. Clint pulls out his phone and dials Pietro's number. When the call immediately cuts out and goes straight to voicemail, Clint frowns and dials a second time.

Then he remembers.

 _Oh._

It's a little bit of an overreaction on Clint's part. His house is somewhat isolated, sure, but it's not in the middle of nowhere. He has relatively friendly, polite neighbors. For once. Clint tells himself that he'll give it five minutes, but doesn't even get to three and a half (yes, he _is_ counting it down to the second, his eyes glued to the clock) before he starts plotting where to look.

The woods aren't too dense, and it's still light out, so—

So, of course, Pietro shows up as if on cue.

His footsteps are heavy and solid on the porch. The door swings open and Clint is greeted by a cheerful bark. He turns and watches as Pietro pads through into the living room, with Lucky trotting along at his heels. Pietro winds up his earphones around a faded pink iPod and tosses it onto the couch, pausing to give Lucky a fond pat on the head. He doesn't look even a little out of breath from his run, dressed down in a white long-sleeved running top, with thumb holes, and a pair of black Nike tights.

"For a guy who gave himself the nickname Quicksilver," Clint says, taking a long swig of beer. He sets the bottle down on the counter. "You're really not that quick."

"Sorry." Pietro grins, a touch sheepish.

"No, you're not."

Pietro laughs, and the sound is followed by a solid thud as he unlaces his sneakers and leaves them scattered all across the living room floor.

"You're right, I'm not." he says. "It was very, very beautiful outside. You should have joined us."

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Good." Pietro nods. "Then we can see who is faster."

"Oh, you know, I think it's actually supposed to rain." Clint says. Lie. A big, fat lie. "Maybe the day after tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Maybe."

Pietro went out for a jog, since his ankle healed up nicely over the weekend (which was mostly spent indoors, on the couch, binge-watching Lost in between long naps). It wasn't sprained or twisted, only a little swollen, but that went down overnight. Clint decided to not go, because a) he's very aware of Pietro's competitive streak, and _"which one of us is faster?"_ isn't really a question that he needs answered. And b) dinner.

No leftovers or pizza, or Chinese takeout.

Clint said he would cook.

He wanders over to the stove, his back facing Pietro as he tends to his sauce. It surprises him—how quiet Pietro can be when he wants to be. He walks up directly behind Clint, wraps an arm around his middle, and pecks him on the cheek.

"I have something for you."

"What, another joke? I'm all ears."

"Don't look."

"What?"

"I'll be right back."

Clint doesn't look, even if he is tempted.

The front door swings open and shut, then Pietro's heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. When he reappears in the kitchen, he pointedly clears his throat.

"Is it," Clint begins. "A book."

"No."

"A motorbike?"

"You can look."

The sauce has two minutes or so left to simmer, and the pasta just needs a little bit longer to cook, so Clint steps away from the stove and gives Pietro a wary smile. His jokes sometimes leave a lot to be desired. The last thing he expects is to find Pietro standing there with a flower in his hands.

A red rose, to be precise.

"Is that for me?"

Pietro twirls the rose between his fingers, a broad smile working its way across his face. He dips his head to kiss Clint, again, this time on the lips, slower, a hand cupping his jaw and the other resting lightly on Clint's waist. _Oh, okay._ It makes Clint dizzy. He's surprised by all of this, by the way Pietro is kissing him. Things between them have been pleasantly domestic. Comfortable, is the word Clint would probably use, but he's enjoyed it. A lot.

And this, Pietro's mouth on his and that hand tightening on his waist, feels nothing at all like that. Clint slides a hand around to the back of Pietro's neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss.

Dinner is an afterthought.

It doesn't occur to Clint to pull away, to tend to the sauce bubbling on the stove and the pasta that is probably very close to being done, not with the way Pietro's pressed up against him. It's easy, he thinks, to lose himself in this, in the feeling of Pietro's hands on him. Clint only pulls back when he has to, a little dizzy.

Pietro lifts his fingers to his lips, like he's cherishing the moment. Clint's eyes track the movement. He's done it before, too, and he can vividly remember how it felt: the pleasant tingle sweeping over him, how he could barely think or breathe, so giddy that all he wanted was to—so, he didn't know what he wanted, only knew that he did _want._ The heat of Pietro's gaze lingers, even when he's gone, moving over to the table and dropping into a chair.

"That was," Clint trails off.

Sweet. Unexpected. Kind of romantic, really. He watches as Pietro smirks, fiddling with the rose. A second later, it ends up in between his teeth. Clint isn't surprised. Pietro grins at him, somehow, even with that rose in his mouth.

Clint laughs, warm and sudden. "What's all this?"

"I'm seducing you."

It sounds like there should be a huge question mark at the end of that sentence. Every time Clint thinks he can't fall a little more hopelessly, stupidly, in love, Pietro does something like this. Pietro makes it easy for Clint to love him. So easy.

"Aren't you full of surprises."

Pietro plucks the flower out from between his teeth and winces. He curses in Sokovian as a small bead of blood appears on the tip of his thumb. Clint makes him wash it under the tap, then tells him where to find the box of Band-Aids, because kissing it better sadly won't work.

"Nice move, Quicksilver." Clint says, pulling the sauce off the stove. "That was real smooth."

"I was being romantic."

"You stole it right out of Mrs. Reed's garden, didn't you?" he asks. "I'm surprised you didn't cut yourself to pieces. Does it hurt?"

Pietro steps around Clint carefully, stretching up for one of the higher cabinets that has an old tin full of medical supplies. "Not as much as when I fell from heaven. That hurt much more. This is only a scratch."

"I thought you were supposed to be seducing me," Clint says, in the middle of draining the pasta. "Not yourself."

Dinner is seconds away from being ready. Pietro sips on his beer and picks at the Band-Aid wrapped around his thumb. Clint adds sauce, chives and cheese, then tosses it all together and dishes up. The sauce isn't burnt, and the pasta isn't over or under, thankfully. It smells kind of amazing. And, according to Pietro, who insists on being super vocal, it's _so good_. Really good. He goes on and on about how much he loves pasta and Clint, but especially pasta. He follows that last remark with a wink, reaching across the table to squeeze Clint's hand.

Then he goes back to his plate.

"I didn't know you could cook. Not like this."

Clint shrugs, and takes a sip of beer. "It's not something I do a lot. Or just for anyone. It felt like a fettuccine kind of night, I guess."

"Did it?" Pietro asks, eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Yeah. Who doesn't love pasta, right?"

"And you don't do this often?"

"Not really. Well, my other boyfriend loves pasta. I cook whenever he's over." Clint smirks.

Pietro places a finger to his lips, still chewing away on a mouthful of pasta. "And this boyfriend. Is he over here a lot?" he asks, reaching for his bottle of Heineken.

"He's upstairs right now."

"Is he?"

"Yep."

"Do you like it," a pause, between sips of beer. "When he stays over here?"

Clint's mouth curves up into a soft smile. He gets the distinct feeling that Pietro's not really talking about an imaginary boyfriend anymore. With a sigh, Clint gets up from the table and grabs a bottle of white wine and two glasses. His beer is empty, and Pietro's is close, and this also feels like a white wine kind of night. He brings it all back over to the table and sits down.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I like it when he's here. Of course." Clint nods, and pours himself a glass—pausing to ask if Pietro wants one, too, which he does. "Is that a trick question? It kinda feels like a trick. What's not to like? He's pretty good company."

"That almost sounds like a compliment."

"Almost?"

"Almost." he nods.

"If I had to pick out one flaw," Clint begins. "It'd be that you—sorry, he. _He_ steals all the covers. All the time. And he always picks the worst shows. I don't know how, but you do it every single time. It's like a skill."

"You like it when I steal the covers." Pietro says, spearing a piece of bacon on the end of his fork.

"Oh, I do? That's news to me. Why do I like it?"

"Because you get to steal them back."

"Like I even get the chance."

Pietro looks way too pleased with himself. It suits him. Happiness suits him. They drink wine and talk about all of the things that Clint imagines they would have talked about on their first date, if this had been it. But it wasn't. It was spent at a busy little carnival, eating cotton candy, holding hands, playing games and stargazing from their spot on a hill. It was a perfect night.

But there are less nerves this time around, Clint thinks.

A second date.

He hasn't been on one of those in years.

Of course, there are certain topics that they gently skirt around (family, relationships, careers. Clint's more than happy to leave all that baggage at the door tonight) but that hardly restricts the conversation. And soon enough, it nearly turns into a game of wanting to know more. It's all very serious stuff, obviously.

"Cake or pie."

"Oh, that's tough. Are we talking pecan? Cherry? Apple?" Clint asks. He's slumped back in his chair, empty plate pushed aside, and a glass of wine in his hand. He rests the glass carefully on his thigh, gripping the stem.

"Yes," Pietro says. "All of them."

"Or cake. Any cake at all?"

"Mhm."

"Pie. I got one," Clint says. "Favorite ice-cream flavor?"

"All of them in one giant bowl."

Clint lifts the glass of wine to his lips. "That's a good one, babe. Your go."

"Would you rather," Pietro begins. His eyes dart around the room, like he's still trying to think of a question, and something in here will help. "I have one. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Sometimes."

"Your turn."

"Three things on your bucket list."

"My bucket list?"

"Yeah. Things you want to do. Achieve. Whatever." Clint says, with a vague wave of his hands. "A list of things. Maybe not even a list, but just something you've thought of doing, or wanting to do. You gotta have three things."

Pietro chews on his lower lip, his face closed off in deep thought, before he smiles. "I thought of it. Well, I want to travel. The only places I have ever been are America and Sokovia."

"Good. That's a good one." Clint nods. "There's a whole world out there. What's the next one?"

"Jump out of a plane."

"You're on your own there, man."

"Go diving. With the fishes, and you wear those—uh, the goggles." Pietro waves a hand around, in a way that is probably supposed to represent snorkelling. "But above the water, not very far under. That would be nice."

"We could go together."

Pietro smiles, and underneath the table, one of his hands squeezes Clint's knee. "We will."

After dinner, they sit on the porch for a good half hour, at least. They drink wine and gaze up at the stars, and it's probably the best second date that Clint's ever had. He leads Pietro inside, then rummages through a box of old records and cassettes, and lots of other junk that he'll sort through much later on, until he finds a tape labelled 'MIXTAPE 0.3' and decides to throw it on.

It's nothing like the first time they danced together, or the time after that, but it's still good—better, somehow, now that it's just the two of them.

By the time they climb into bed, it's almost midnight, and Clint is sure that this is _definitely_ the best second date he's ever had. Pietro falls asleep in his arms, head buried in the crook of Clint's neck. He keeps playing the night over and over in his head. Instead of overthinking any of it, Clint closes his eyes and falls asleep.

* * *

TUES 16 JUNE

"Are you awake?"

Clint is semi-conscious. He's been that way for at least an hour, dozing on and off, catching glimpses of sunlight and the freckles on Pietro's shoulders. It's a lazy kind of day, he thinks. He wakes earlier than Pietro, most of the time. Out of habit. An early riser for all the jobs that just couldn't wait. Clint smirks, eyes shut, with his back still facing Pietro.

The younger man nudges him in the side.

 _Ouch._

After a beat, Clint answers. "No. Nobody's awake here."

"I knew it." he says. "This is romantic, yes?"

"No, it's not. Go back to sleep."

"Yes, it is." Pietro insists. He kisses a spot behind Clint's ear. Then his lips brush over Clint's shoulder, the nape of his neck. "You were pretending to be asleep, so that you wouldn't wake me."

"Oh, yeah." Clint says dryly, even though Pietro's right on the money. "I'm real sweet. I should get the Boyfriend of the Year Award, especially after last night."

"Mm. We'll look into that."

A particularly nosey, one-eyed golden Labrador abruptly interrupts. Clint sighs and reluctantly climbs out of bed. He stops by the bathroom first and splashes some water on his face, then heads downstairs to gather up some breakfast. It's nothing at all like the delicious scrambled eggs Pietro whipped up (after all, Clint's not a Breakfast Wizard) but it's good enough.

They eat cereal in bed and share a cup of coffee.

Apparently, Clint's low on coffee, too. He jots that down on the shopping list. Milk. Beer. Detergent. Eggs. Candy. Bread. More coffee. A lot of the last minute requests are from Pietro, but Clint scribbles them all down anyway. Vodka. Gummy bears. Pietro drops his head onto Clint's shoulder, downloads Trivia Crack and several other apps that Clint doesn't even catch a glimpse of, before settling on KleptoCats.

A cat app, of course.

"These are your cats." Pietro explains. He holds up the iPhone and gives Clint a tour.

"I'm more of a dog person."

"You only have two so far. This one is Lilo." he continues unperturbed. "And I named this one Hawkeye."

"That's cute. You download anything else?"

Pietro closes the game, flicks through half a dozen apps: Archery King, Cooking Fever, Fruit Ninja, and an app for music that Pietro signed into, so that Clint can access all his favorite songs. There are other games and apps, but Pietro is easily distracted and starts playing something called Temple Run. Clint reads one of Laura's old books—The Time Traveller's Wife, he even reads an excerpt out to Pietro—and drains the last of the coffee.

It's nearly midday, next time Clint glances at the clock.

"Unless you wanna live on cereal, we'd better drive into town. Grab a bite to eat." Clint says, pressing a quick kiss to Pietro's temple, who then yanks the covers up over his head and burrows in closer against Clint's side. "I know. Trust me, there's nothing I want more than to stay right here in this bed with you. But we can't."

 _But I'm hungry,_ he thinks. And out of coffee.

"I don't want to leave."

"There's this gelato place," Clint begins.

Apparently, that's all he needs to say. The covers come down and a bright-eyed, slightly ruffled, Pietro appears. "I do like gelato." he says and sits up, carding a hand back through the spikey ends of his hair. "Is this a date?"

Clint considers that. "If you want it to be, yeah."

"I do."

"Then it's a date."

Pietro perks up considerably at that. "Like last night?"

"You bet."

A soft, chaste kiss is pressed to Clint's lips.

He reluctantly drags himself out of bed, to shower and to possibly shave, and doesn't expect for Pietro to join him. But he wants to. When he asks if that's okay, Clint nods, unable to string a proper sentence together. And then his phone rings. It takes a good twenty seconds to find it, at least, buried deep under the covers.

[11:46AM] INCOMING CALL: LAURA

Clint's finger hovers over the Decline button.

"I should probably take this."

"Work?"

"Not really. Sort of."

Pietro looks sleepy. He looks like how Clint feels on the inside, without a second cup of coffee. But he also looks warm. Comfy. It's a cute look, his clothes wrinkled, fluffy hair poking up wildly.

"Can it wait?" Pietro asks.

"Go ahead. I'll join you."

By the time Clint finally answers, Laura hangs up.

A new voicemail notification pops up shortly after. Laura politely asks Clint to call back, so he does, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He waits and waits, until she finally picks up, voice full of warmth. And familiar, even after all this time.

 _"Hey. Hi."_

"Laura. How can I help you?"

 _"Oh, I'm just calling to say hi. It was nice—seeing you. That was nice."_ a pause. _"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"_

Clint runs a finger along his jaw, quietly deliberating over his answer. It's not like he can say: yeah, you are, I was actually about to go shower with my twenty-five year old boyfriend. Instead, he says: "Nope. What's up?"

It isn't a very long chat. Mostly, she just wanted to say hi, to check in after bumping into them outside of Baskin-Robbins, to arrange a lunch of sorts. A way to reconnect, talk things over. Clint nods along, sure, but keeps eying off the hallway.

He listens as the shower starts up.

"Yeah, I'd love to. Things are just a little busy right now. I could maybe do something next week." Clint says. He's fairly certain that most of this week has been completely booked out by Pietro. "Maybe. Gotta check."

 _"Next week works for me."_

"Did you wanna come over? Grab the rest of your stuff. If not, I guess you could always swing around after."

 _"No, no that makes the most sense. And I'd like to see Lucky again, so, that works."_ she says. _"What should I bring?"_

"I got it. Don't worry about it."

 _"How is he?"_

"Who? Pietro? He's," he trails off. "Peachy."

 _"I meant Lucky."_ Laura says, with a quiet laugh. _"But that's good to hear. So, next week. It's settled."_

"Yep."

 _"I'll text you? Or call. Whatever's easier."_

"We'll figure something out."

 _"Okay. Well, it was good to hear your voice. Talk soon?"_

Clint smiles. "You bet."

The call disconnects. Clint stands and throws his phone onto the bed; it disappears somewhere near the pillows. He runs a hand over his face tiredly, and sighs, because somehow, he always gets talked into these brunches and lunches. _Always._ Laura is pleasant enough, but he's still not thrilled about taking a walk down memory lane.

His iPhone chimes from underneath the pillow, but Clint ignores it. Whatever it is, it can wait. Clint makes his way down the hall. The bathroom is already filled with steam; it fogs up the glass, makes the air sticky and humid.

Pietro sings in the shower, Clint learns.

"Hey." he says, jutting a hip out to lean against the basin. It's steamy, that's for sure. Beads of sweat roll down his neck. "Wow, it's hot in here. Want me to go wait outside? I can do that. I can go."

"What did you tell her?" Pietro calls back.

 _Oh._

"Yeah, that was Laura. What gave it away?"

"I heard you talking."

"She wants to meet up." Clint explains, crossing his arms across his chest. "I told her maybe I could do something next week, but I'm all booked out this week. Can't do it."

"Good."

"Yeah?"

Pietro hums softly in response, then starts to sing. It's in Sokovian, Clint thinks, and quiet enough that it's almost drowned out by the water beating down in the shower.

"Well?" Pietro says, a moment later.

"Uh, sorry?" Clint says. "Sorry. I should've told you it was Laura calling, not work. I don't know why I said that, and then all I could think about was how much I'd rather be in here with you. Sorry. I'm a little rusty."

"Get in," he says. "Before I use all the hot water."

A nervous huff passes Clint's lips. It sounds more like a weird, strangled laugh. Maybe it is. After all, the two are now making small talk about tiles and color coordination while Clint undresses. _Tiles._ Clint laughs, again.

This is—new. Unchartered territory.

Still, he tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift movement. His checkered pyjama bottoms are the next to go, then his briefs.

It all ends up on the bathroom floor.

Clint's breath hitches as he steps inside the shower, hot water spilling over his shoulders. He dips his head under the spray of water, revelling in the warmth, eyes slipping shut when Pietro presses a slow, lingering kiss between his shoulder blades. A finger traces along Clint's spine, lingering a moment, before pulling away.

"We should," Clint trails off. "Talk."

"You want to talk?"

"No. No, I think we're good. We're good, right?"

"Very."

A second kiss is placed between Clint's shoulder blades: feather-light, lips barely grazing the skin.

The kind of thing that drives him crazy.

When he turns, Pietro's hands go to his face, urging him closer until there's no distance left between them. Pietro kisses him, light and sweet, and just enough to get Clint dizzy. It's intoxicating. They break apart, but there's still barely any room left between them.

The shower cube wasn't exactly built for two.

It's a little crammed, and hot, the glass screen fogged up with steam. Clint can barely breathe, but he chalks that up to _this_ , to the kissing and touching, and Pietro's eyes burning into his own. Clint's blood is thrumming, and his skin tingles with each barely-there touch. Beads of water dribble down Pietro's skin like raindrops, Clint notices. It becomes impossible to look away.

He chases a droplet with the tip of his finger, following it along the curve of Pietro's neck, down, down the hollow of his throat. Pietro sways forward, presses his forehead against Clint's, eyes squeezed shut.

"Tell me," Pietro says. He exhales a long breath, lips full and red. "If I should stop. Tell me if—if you want to stop."

"I'm not gonna do that."

"Then tell me what to do. I don't—we haven't ever,"

Pietro trails off, breathing heavily. He seems nervous, in a way that he's rarely allowed himself to be around Clint. The most they've ever done is kiss, so Clint gets it, really. Nerves are totally understandable. Clint's even feeling a little apprehensive himself. Thing is, he's had plenty of experience. Years of it. He always knew.

"Tell me what you want." Clint says, gentle, and maybe a little breathless. "And we'll go from there. We can take it real slow. We got time."

"I want to touch you."

Clint takes one of Pietro's hands and places it over his sternum. All traces of hesitation fade from Pietro's touch as his hand slides lower and lower, sweeping down his torso. He bites at Clint's bottom lip and kisses Clint, hard, crowding him up against the glass.

His lips are soft and wet and warm, kissing along Clint's jaw and his neck, then ghosting over the bullet scar on Clint's shoulder.

* * *

[1:07PM] INCOMING CALL: BUCKY

[1:08PM] MISSED CALL: BUCKY

* * *

"We don't need those."

"But we might."

"Really?" Clint asks, exchanging a dubious look between Pietro and the row of canned potato crisps on sale. Buy two, get one half price. "I don't know about you, babe, but I'm not big on dill pickle flavored Pringles."

Pietro's nose crinkles. "I don't want that." he says. "What about the Sour Cream and Onion?"

"Yeah. We can get two."

The grocery store is pretty empty, with only a few stray shoppers passing by every so often. Which is good. And safer, really, since Pietro insists speeding to the end of each aisle, trying to be quicker every time. _Keep up, old man,_ he shouts out, every single time. Clint follows along behind him, carrying the groceries that he wasn't able to throw into the cart before Pietro sped off.

Okay, so there are a _few_ occasions where he has to talk Pietro out of several purchases ("we already have three packets of gummy worms" "put that back" "I don't think we need a cheese wheel, babe" "do you even know what kind of fruit that is? Yeah, neither do I" "no" "we already have four packets of gummy worms") but apart from all that, it's actually kind of fun, which isn't a word that Clint would usually associate with groceries.

"We're stocking up for a couple days," he says, as Pietro returns with an armful of canned goods. "Not the zombie apocalypse."

"But we might—"

"Do you even like canned corn?"

Pietro sighs, like Clint's ruining _all_ of his fun.

"No."

"We can keep the tomatoes. C'mon, let's go."

* * *

[2:44PM] MISSED CALL: WANDA

* * *

Much later, after they make it to the store and back, after Pietro has an afternoon nap, Clint decides that he wants to paint. He has to do something with himself. They end up in the living room, staring at the unfinished job that Clint can't help but feel slightly self-conscious about. It's been months since he actually completed a project on the farm. He takes Pietro through the basics, stands up behind him, bracketing his body, and shows him how to use the paintbrush properly.

Pietro eventually gets the swing of it. Thankfully, there's a thin sheet of plastic spread out over the floor, and he's in a pair of old clothes, so it shouldn't be too messy.

The old clothes belong to Clint.

A slim red and blue flannel, and faded black jeans.

It's almost a perfect fit. The shirt is slightly oversized, with the sleeves hanging a little too long, fully covering Pietro's hands. Clint doesn't know how that happened. It probably just got stretched in the wash. Pietro doesn't seem to mind, since he picked the shirt out himself, and he simply rolls the sleeves up to his elbows.

Clint keeps stealing glances of Pietro out of the corner of his eye, and smiling to himself, as if to say, _you're here. I can't believe it. This morning you were in my bed and in my shower, and now you're here._

Of course, things don't exactly run smoothly.

Pietro is trouble, plain and simple. Clint already knows this. It was obvious from pretty early on, but still, he can't help but let out a squawk of surprise when the younger man dips his hand into a paint tin and slaps Clint square on the ass.

The imprint it leaves behind is—

Wet.

A huge, white handprint.

Clint's halfway up a ladder, and he startles at the touch. "You happy with yourself?" he asks, craning his head to get a proper glimpse of the handprint. "Oh, you are, aren't you? That's great. That'll never wash out."

 _Not my problem,_ says the big, wide grin plastered across Pietro's face. His hand is still covered in white paint, despite the large mark left behind on the back of Clint's jeans. He looks down at his hand, then pointedly back at Clint. _Uh-oh._ Clint knows that look very well. That wolfish-grin, and that glint in his eyes. He's plotting something.

"Might wanna rethink you next move, kid."

Slowly, Clint climbs down from the ladder, and wonders whether if it's even worth the effort to change into a new pair of pants. Probably not. He's tried getting paint out of denim before, but didn't have much luck (not that it's a huge loss, really. That cheeky smile on Pietro's face kind of makes it worth it. Makes him want to stick around, not run off and do laundry).

"You got a little something," Clint says, gesturing to the spot on his own face.

A dot of paint is drying on Pietro's jaw. He reaches out to wipe it away, only for Pietro to lean back, eyes narrowed. He cleanly avoids Clint's touch.

"It's right there."

"I don't think so, old man."

"What?"

"You will try to get me. I know this trick."

Clint sets his brush aside and down onto the edge of the paint tray. It drips slowly, dots of white dribbling from the fine hair ends of the brush. "There. It's gone. Nobody has to get any paint on them."

And then, of course, Pietro completely disregards Clint's gesture and lurches forward, the hand coated in quickly-drying paint going to Clint's jaw, pulling him in close for a sneaky kiss. The soft drag of Pietro's mouth against his own is so many things at once. Mostly, it's a distraction. Clint doesn't even notice the hand sliding up his jaw, around to the back of his neck, up, up, to tangle in the ends of his hair—coating them white. Clint breaks away from the kiss.

"Oh, that's great." Clint sighs. "You gave me tips. Frosted tips. Awesome."

Pietro blinks, all faux innocence. "I thought we could be matching." he gestures to his hair which definitely isn't a tacky, frosted-tip style. It's white, or gray.

 _Silver._

Whatever. The point is, they definitely aren't matching.

"I call bullshit."

"Do you? Good for you."

"C'mere."

From there, it escalates. Rapidly. Clint doesn't know how it changes from a simple slap on the ass to an all out war, but he's glad that he spread plastic sheets and old papers over the floor. Newspapers crinkle beneath their bare feet as Clint darts forward and pulls Pietro against him, painting a blue stripe down the side of his face. The paint dribbles all down his jaw, and when Pietro wipes at the area, it only smears.

Clint's covered in spots and thick smudges of paint.

He ends up on the floor, somehow, newspaper crunching underneath his back, and Pietro's weight bearing down on top of him. The brushes are gone, forgotten, in favor of this. Of touching each other and fumbling with the buttons on paint-sticky shirts. Clint winds an arm around Pietro's neck and pulls him down closer, always closer.

It isn't at all how Clint saw his afternoon going, but when Pietro smiles down at him, his hair askew and the ends colored blue, he knows that he wouldn't change a thing.

Not a single moment.

Pietro peppers hot, fervent kisses along his jaw, a hand fumbling once again with the buttons on Clint's shirt. It can be a little tricksy, he knows, so many buttons and what feels like so little time. But they have time. _So_ much of it, in fact, that it makes Clint feel giddy. He helps Pietro through it.

"You can slow down," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."

A soft laugh passes his lips when he feels Pietro smiling against his jaw.

 _You're here,_ Clint thinks.

And then Pietro's mouth is on his again, and he's kissing Clint like he's never kissed him before, a hand slipping below the waist of his jeans. It would make sense that, only seconds later, a car would pull up outside, and the sound of Bucky's smug voice would echo down the hall.

Clint's never going to live this down.

Not that he even minds that much, really. Once, yeah, he might've cared that his clothes were askew, the buttons not properly buttoned up, that his fly was sort of down, and his mouth all kiss-swollen.

But not this time.

Steve, at least, has the good grace to look—well, he's not really embarrassed. He looks guilty, when Pietro appears in the hallway to greet them, and Clint follows shortly after, looking noticeably dishevelled. Bucky, on the other hand, doesn't even look a little bit sorry. With a big, shit-eating grin plastered across his face, he swings an arm around Clint's shoulders and steers them towards the kitchen, because Steve brought food along. _Bless him._

Halfway through the meal, Steve smiles and says, "You know this doesn't actually count for brunch, right?"

"Can't get out of it that easy, Barton." Bucky winks.

"I figured." Clint sighs.

"Oh, and just a heads up," Bucky leans in, but when he speaks, his voice isn't even close to a whisper. "I thought you might wanna know your shirt's inside out, man. And it looks like you missed a couple buttons, too, lemme get those for you. I'll just—"

Clint swats Bucky's hand away. "I got it."

"Nice hair, Guy Fieri."

"Nice face. Jerk."

* * *

 **[5:13PM]:**

 **Hi, Clint. I tried calling earlier. is Pietro there?**

[5:22PM]:

pietro isnt here right now...leave a msg after the beep

[5:23PM]:

bEeeEeEEeeeeEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEeeEeeeP

 **[5:27PM]:**

 **Very funny, Piet.**

 **[5:31PM]:**

 **How is it? Is everything ok?**

[5:34PM]:

good except the old man has very bad taste in movies

 **[5:36PM]:**

 **ha. I'm sure that he does.**

[5:38PM]:

.. **..**

[5:41PM]:

Oh, it's terrible here.. Trust me. I make the kid breakfast and dinner. He gets piggybacks and gummy worms. It's awful. No fun is being had at all. But you're welcome to join us, Wanda. Swing by.

[5:44PM]:

If it wasn't clear, it's me. Clint. The actual owner of this phone. And I'd like to circle back to that comment about my taste in movies.

[5:45PM]:

We're sorry about missing your call earlier. Didn't mean to make you worry. We had people over.

 **[5:51PM]:**

 **I'm glad to be hearing from you both now. Will you join us for dinner, Clint?**

[6:02PM]:

Tonight?

[6:04PM]:

I sort of have plans. Or I guess I had something planned. Whatever. My thing can wait. What's the occasion?

 **[6:10PM]:**

 **No, not tonight. Thursday. Piet didn't mention it?**

[6:14PM]:

I don't remember. Does that make me a bad boyfriend?

[6:15PM]:

Wait, was it supposed to be like a birthday thing?

 **[6:17PM]:**

 **Not at all. It will be dinner with the four of us. Vision and myself. You and my brother.**

 **[6:20PM]:**

 **This will be the only night that Viszh has off for awhile and I wanted him to finally meet you. It just happened to be on your birthday..**

[6:24PM]:

Finally? You guys talk about me or something? :-)

 **[6:35PM]:**

 **Or something**

[6:37PM]:

Sounds fun. Count me in, kid.

[6:40PM]:

Wait. I got one rule: no eulogy. And I need alcohol.

 **[6:42PM]:**

 **Deal. :)**

[6:45PM]:

I knew you were warming up to me.

 **[6:47PM]:**

 **For now. Xx**

* * *

"Sit still," he says. "And stop fidgeting."

"I don't see what any of this has to do with _—_ "

"Give me your right hand," Pietro insists.

Clint warily extends his hand, the palm facing upwards, his eyes roaming over Pietro. He looks warm, and snug, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. It's a date. The third, to be precise. Since they never actually made it to the gelato place, Clint decided to surprise Pietro with an evening under the stars. In the back of his truck, with a picnic blanket spread out, and a stack of pillows that he gathered up from the guest bedroom. Now, though, the two are sitting cross-legged, and facing each other.

He dug out an old book on constellations, but Pietro is much more interested in reading Clint's palm (not that Clint minds; he goes along with it, even if he's still a bit skeptical).

"Alright, Mr. Fortune Teller. I gotta know one thing," Clint says. "Do I lose my hair? Tell me I don't."

"What?"

"You're predicting my future, right?"

"No, I'm reading your lines." Pietro taps a finger against the inside of Clint's wrist, then slowly drags it across his upturned palm. His touch is gentle, and fond. "There are four. Heart, head, life, and fate. But not everyone has the fate line."

"Oh."

"Some lines are short, but there are always three."

"How many have I got?"

Pietro squints, bowing his head to get a closer look. He narrows his eyes critically. "Four, I think. We will start with the heart. It can be read in either direction, from this finger," he touches a spot just below Clint's pinkie, then traces a steady line linking it to his index. "To this one."

"Alright."

"Yours begins in the middle here, see?"

"Is that bad?"

"It means you fall in love easily."

"So, it _is_ bad."

"Mm. This line here is your head line," a soft smile curves up the corner of Pietro's mouth, and his eyes seem to twinkle as he continues, "And it means creativity."

Clint tries not to stare, but his eyes keep slipping back to Pietro's face. He looks warm, and snug, and like _home,_ and Clint's pretty sure that he's never felt this before. Not this intensely. He chews on his bottom lip, like he's deep in thought, considering Pietro's words about falling in love too easily, and creativity. He's probably got a point, Clint has to admit. He did fall _very_ easily for Pietro.

"Yeah? What's next?"

The tip of Pietro's finger runs over the skin near Clint's thumb, and travels in a slow arc towards his wrist. "Your life line," he explains. "Yours is curvy, meaning you have plenty of energy."

"Should I be worried? For a life line, it's kind of short."

"Don't be silly, old man." Pietro dismisses. "The length of the line does not indicate length of life."

"Awesome."

"Your fate line is the line of destiny."

"That old thing."

Clint's never been a huge believer in fate or destiny. He knows that Pietro is, sure, but he's more of the belief that good things happen just because they can, and the same goes for bad. Sometimes, things just happen, and it isn't fate or destiny, or luck. It just happens.

"A deep line like this one here means," Pietro continues, voice shaking Clint out of his thoughts. "You are strongly controlled by fate."

* * *

WED 17 JUNE

The farmhouse sits comfortably on two acres of land. It isn't raining, so they take a long walk in the morning, with Lucky eagerly leading the way forward. In the afternoon, they sit and eat lunch under the shade of an old tree, and Clint tells Pietro a little more about his time in the circus. Then, they sleep on the grass, a green checkered blanket spread out underneath them.

It's quiet, the noise of distant traffic is muted, and barely reaches Clint's ears. He probably dozes for just over an hour before Pietro's voice stirs him.

"I don't want to move. I won't."

"Fine by me. We can stay right here."

"Why would you ever want to leave a place like this? It's so," he murmurs. "Peaceful. Quiet."

Clint hums softly in agreement, eyes still closed.

Of course, there are days where he feels isolated. Some days, it gets the better of him. There are brightly colored houses lined up in the distance, a row of neighbor's that Clint doesn't know that well (or at all, really). His house is surrounded by trees and a tall, weathered barn. It can get a little lonely, and it can get the better of him, but today isn't one of those days. Pietro is warm and snug, tucked up close against Clint's side, a hand resting lightly on his chest.

Today feels like paradise.

Beside him, Pietro shifts on the blanket.

"Was the farm you grew up on like this one?" he asks, and the weight on Clint's chest is gone.

Clint slowly opens his eyes and finds that Pietro's now on his back, blinking up at the sky, at the warm light that filters in through the leaves of the Sycamore tree. Clint shakes his head. _That's another story entirely,_ he thinks, pushing himself up so that he's sitting. He runs a hand over the grass and picks up a twig, fiddling with it for a moment before he answers.

"Not really."

"What was it like?"

"Cold."

And loud. _So_ loud that it was years before he could fully block it all out. It was solemn, too, and always felt like something bad had happened, or that it soon would. The familiar weight of Pietro's hand on the back of his neck draws Clint back to the present.

"Do you want to go back inside?" Pietro asks, suddenly much closer than he was a moment ago.

"No, I'm good out here."

"Come, ljubavi. We'll go for walk then."

Pietro stands, dusting pieces of grass off his pants. He holds a hand out for Clint to take and wiggles his fingers impatiently, probably hoping that it might hurry him up.

He takes Pietro's hand and doesn't let go.

There isn't all that much to see that Pietro hasn't already seen, but he's still as curious as ever. Clint points out the trees he planted, shows Pietro the inside of the barn; a old red tractor sits in the far corner of the room, and the countless license plates that Clint has collected over the years, some old and faded and a little rusted, are nailed to the wall above his workbench. There _really_ isn't much to see, so they go back outside.

Eventually, the picnic table that Clint built when he and Laura first moved in comes into view. He leads Pietro to it and sits down.

"Will you just—can we sit? Just for a moment."

"This sounds serious."

"No," Clint shakes his head. "Maybe. I guess that's up to you to decide. There's something I need to tell you, and I thought maybe we should be sitting down for it."

The table itself is weathered, but still in good shape, all things considered. Large blocks of chopped wood are scattered across the lawn. _Right._ Clint keeps meaning to get to those, and stack them all away in the barn until winter. Pietro slides into the seat across from him.

"I need to tell you something."

Without even missing a beat, Pietro says, "Is this about the other night? The night of your party?

"Yeah."

"Is something wrong? Between us?"

"Not even a little." Clint assures. "We're good. More than good, actually."

Clint lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and rubs at the area. He spares a quick glance at Pietro, who looks wary, a slight crease forming between his brows. There's no way he could know about Tony and the almost-kiss. _He doesn't know,_ Clint thinks, _but he deserves to._

"It's about Tony."

"He tried to kiss you."

"You saw that?"

Pietro nods, and he doesn't look angry or sad, only a little confused. "Yes, I saw all of it."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was waiting,"

"For what?"

"For you to tell me."

"And I wanted to. You gotta believe me, I did." Clint says, and stretches across the table, wanting to take Pietro's hands in his own. He decides at the very last moment not to, that it should be Pietro's call. "I didn't want to ruin this."

"I saw him try to kiss you."

Pietro sounds angry, now, like it's taking twice as much effort to get the words out. A thought passes across his face like a shadow, and he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it for a moment.

"Then I saw you pull away from him." Pietro's eyes land on Clint, then, and his expression softens considerably. "I know why you kept it a secret. Because you didn't want it to hurt me."

"I don't want that. That's the last thing I'd ever want."

He looks down, temporarily averting his eyes.

"There's something else. Not about Tony, but Laura. It's," Clint begins. He casts his eyes skyward; impossibly blue, and bright. Clint temporarily closes his eyes against the gentle afternoon light. Then he turns to Pietro. "I wanted to tell you, but it never felt like the right time."

"Whatever it is," Pietro says.

The rest goes unspoken.

 _You can tell me._

 _No more secrets._

"Laura wanted kids. Always. And I knew that." he nods to himself slowly. "She thought I'd make a good dad, but I wasn't sure. Yeah. That was the only thing we ever really fought about. Then one day, things changed."

"What happened?"

Clint drops his head a little, his shoulders twitching in a jerky shrug. His mouth moves, but no actual words come out. Not right away.

"It didn't work out the way we hoped. We tried IVF, but it just wasn't happening. Some things aren't meant to be."

He's come to terms with it.

That life _—_ it isn't even something that he wants anymore, no, not even a little bit. A long moment stretches out between them, before Pietro stands, and drops into the spot next to Clint. A hand comes to rest lightly on Clint's thigh; it's a comfort, having him close, knowing that he's not going anywhere.

"You should have told me sooner." Pietro says. "I would have listened."

It's gentle, not angry.

He kisses Clint's temple.

"Didn't know how." Clint manages. "I didn't know."

Pietro exhales a shaky breath. "Oh, Clint. You should tell me these things. Don't keep them all inside."

"Yeah, well, my timing's always been pretty crap."

"I think," he says, words measured, careful. "I think that you had to wait until you were ready. I understand."

Clint spreads both hands out on the table, drumming his fingers against the faded wood. "When I saw her, it just brought a lot of things up. But I should've told you right away. I wanted to."

"You're telling me now," Pietro says quietly. "And that is the only thing that matters."

* * *

~*~ happy belated Valentine's Day ~*~


	36. Chapter 36

Clint | **Bucky** | _Vision_

(I'd check this chapter out on ao3, because emojis.)

* * *

THURS 18 JUNE

His routine is shot to hell, and he doesn't mind, not even a little. Clint would stay in bed all day, if it meant that he could watch Pietro sleep. He's so peaceful like this. The minutes stretch into hours, and Clint doesn't mind. Not one little bit. The younger man is half on him, half off the bed. A hand rests lightly on Clint's bare chest, his fingers twitching every so often. The pale sheets are all tangled up around his ankles.

They always end up there by the morning.

(around ankles, or hips, or on a pile on the floor)

Pietro's breath hitches slightly.

He stretches, the muscles in his back twitching with the movement. Clint commits all of to memory: the curve of Pietro's spine. The way his skin feels underneath Clint's hands. That deep, jagged scar winding around his torso, and how it felt to kiss every inch of it. The light sprinkling of freckles across his shoulders.

The slope of his nose.

That warm, sleepy smile.

All of it.

Pietro grumbles into his pillow.

 _Coffee,_ Clint thinks, and he moves to climb out of bed to go fetch some. Pietro's voice stops him

"Where are you going? Come back to bed, old man."

* * *

 **[8:21AM]:**

 **congrats on the birthday clint. from the 3 of us**

 **[8:25AM]:**

 **also steve says he'll call u later**

[8:27AM]:

Thanks guys.

[8:29AM]:

Wait, the 3 of you? Why are there 3?

 **[8:30AM]:**

 **yea we got a turtle**

 **[8:35AM]:**

 **steve says I have to ask if u r free for drinks tonite? ? Its just a bunch of us. me nat stark Wilson. maybe lang**

[8:38AM]:

Sorry, we have plans. Another time?

 **[8:40AM]:**

 **yea sure**

 **[8:43AM]:**

 **so "we?"? kids sticking around? good for him. i mean i personally find you pretty annoying but hey sometimes i guess you aren't so bad**

[8:46AM]:

The feeling's mutual.

 **[8:47AM]:**

 **you also have a great ass so maybe thats why**

[8:50AM]:

Maybe. You'd have to ask him why. Anyway I appreciate the heartfelt birthday wishes and the comment about my ass. x

 **[8:52AM]:**

 **np man!  
**

* * *

Pietro goes home and it rains all day. Clint expected as much. It's bittersweet, when Pietro reaches for him, his arms wrapping tight around Clint's neck; he's warm and soft, and feels like home, and Clint doesn't want to let go.

But he does.

He kisses Pietro goodbye on the porch, then watches as Wanda's faded Beetle speeds off into the distance.

It shouldn't feel final, but it does. Clint can't quite put his finger on why that is. He lingers on the porch a moment, shoulder propped up against a wooden beam. The last few days play on repeat in his mind: coffee and languid walks and an arm draped heavily over his waist.

The best part was not sleeping alone.

The best part was—well, all of it. Every single moment. It was going for walks, and eating breakfast together, and Pietro gently kicking his ankle under the table. The best part was the pizza and the afternoon naps and teaching Pietro how to play darts and having all the conversations that Clint was surprised they'd never had.

("I thought of something," Pietro had told him, earlier that morning, in between peppering kisses along Clint's jaw, and pressing Clint into the mattress. "For the list. I want to go to a city. A big one."

"Yeah." Clint had replied easily. "Anything you want."

"And I want to go with you."

"Guess we're going to New York.")

With his eyes squeezed shut, Clint listens to the rain fall, to each sudden, violent clap of thunder.

Then he goes back to bed.

* * *

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

happy birthday cowboy :-)

 **Clint Barton:**

Thanks babe. Again. xx

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

how is it so far?

 **Clint Barton:**

I got back in bed?

Pretty awesome

:-)

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

haha good! i would have too

 **Clint Barton:**

I miss you

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

like a hole in the head :-) ?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, but worse. Way worse.

A hole in the heart.

That sounded way less lame in my head.

Come back soon?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i knew u liked me xx

ofc i will be back soon

 **Clint Barton**

I do. A lot. What gave it away?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

hm

well u always let me pick the shows to watch even tho u complain that I only pick terrible ones. n u cooked dinner for me. u also let me sleep on the side of the bed that "belongs" to u... and then u carried me home when i hurt my ankle

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, right. Well that's actually because you're hot and not because I like you.

Like crazy hot. Super hot.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

very funny

 **Clint Barton:**

That's my thing. I'm the funny guy. You're the hot one. I thought you knew that?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

ill let u have this only today

it is ur birthday after all

 **Clint Barton:**

How sweet of you xx

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

r u looking forward to dinner? ?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh yeah. I get to see you. And there's food.

What more could a guy want?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

pizza?

 **Clint Barton:**

You know me so well.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i left something behind for u

 **Clint Barton:**

For me?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

a surprise

 **Clint Barton:**

Is it pizza?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

not food

 **Clint Barton:**

What? Another broken glass?

That won't be much of a surprise

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

a present, old man. go look for it instead of making bad jokes. also u broke that glass not me

 **Clint Barton:**

That's not even a little true and you know it

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

go on

 **Clint Barton:**

Where am I looking? Can I have a hint?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

it is near somewhere warm

 **Clint Barton:**

That narrows it down.

The oven? So it's in the kitchen?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

go look use your eyes

 **Clint Barton:**

What else would I look with?

Yeah, I know. Enough with the jokes. I'm looking. Gotcha. No jokes. More searching. I'm on it.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

good luck

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't need luck

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

did you check all of the cupboards? ?

 **Clint Barton:**

Am now

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

u were right

not the kitchen. look somewhere else

want another clue?

 **Clint Barton:**

Nope I think I've got it

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

did u find it?

 **Clint Barton:**

Not yet. Wait I think I found it

There's a square, light package buried underneath a pile of sweaters in the old trunk by Clint's bed; right by the fireplace. He moves the blankets and knitwear, and picks up the present; it's wrapped in plain brown paper, with a string bow tied neatly around it.

Clint tugs on the string until it unravels, tears away the wrapping paper carefully.

Inside the small box is a beautiful ceramic mug, painted emerald green and blue, and a picture album. The mug feels so delicate in Clint's hands.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

so? do u like it? hate it?

u hate it

knew it

i should have gotten something different

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey, slow down. I love it.

I don't know what to say. You know me so well.

A beautiful mug, 'cause I like coffee and this is probably healthier than injecting it straight into the vein. And an album, so I can fill it with pictures of you.

Obviously, right?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

obviously ;)

happy birthday babe

 **Clint Barton:**

Did you make it yourself?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

the mug yes not the album

you really like it?

 **Clint Barton:**

I love it. More than I can say.

Of course I mean it

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

there is a picture inside look

 **Clint Barton:**

That's us

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

from the carnival

 **Clint Barton:**

I remember. And I love it.

Love you

Even if you did make me play the clown game that night at the carnival. Yeah, that's right. I still remember.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

u loved it

 **Clint Barton:**

Not even a little.

Maybe I can stay over tonight? At yours

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i would like this :-)

Clint traces his fingers over the inscription on the first page of the album. The photograph is from _so_ long ago, but it isn't, not really. It just feels that way. The two of them on a pretty carousel, squeezed together on that tiny horse. Clint doesn't even remember posing for it, but oh, how he remembers the night.

 **Clint Barton:**

Thanks. Not just for this, but for everything.

You've been great. And I didn't get to say this yesterday, so I guess I'll say it now: Laura will always be a big part of my life, but you're huge.

Wait

That came out wrong

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

no no, keep going

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't ruin it. I'm trying to be all sappy.

Laura was a big part of my life. But the past is the past for a reason. I screwed things up once and I won't do it again. Not deliberately. Not to you. I wanna be better.

I could never make up my mind about what I wanted, but that's all behind me. I know now that it's pizza. Pizza and you.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i know how u feel cowboy xx

have to go

talk soon?

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm here all week, folks.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

:-)

p.s i still think ur the hot one..

xo

* * *

Clint arrives at the Maximoff Apt. a little after 7:30.

He's only a couple minutes late (he blames the Uber) but he still hurries up the stairs, quickly taking a moment outside to straighten his collar, smooth the non-existent wrinkles out of his leather jacket, and—

"Ah, Clint."

Somehow, before the door is fully open, before Clint even knocks, that voice greets him. Clint's just standing in the hallway, with a sad-looking bunch of flowers gripped in one hand loosely, feeling a little nervous about dinner.

He's in the middle of smoothing down his hair and fixing his clothes when he recognizes that voice. _Vision._

Vision, who is significantly more dressed up than Clint is, wearing slacks and a blazer. He looks neat and tidy, and he's smiling, which is weird, because Clint's never seen that before. Not really. But he _does_ get this look, and a kind of half-smile, whenever he's around Wanda, Clint's noticed.

"It is pleasant to see you again." he says.

"Yeah, buddy," Clint claps him on the shoulder, and side-steps around him and into the apartment. "The same to you. Good to see you."

Pietro isn't ready yet, and neither is Wanda. He's arrived just in time to witness Wanda banging on the bathroom door, muttering angrily in Sokovian. Pietro shouts back and although Clint doesn't understand a word, he doesn't think that Pietro sounds even a little apologetic.

It reminds Clint of his childhood feuds with Barney, in a way, and brings a smile to his lips. Vision doesn't seem bothered. He just gives Clint a look, like he's used to it, to _them_. Maybe he is. Vision fetches a vase for the flowers, seems to know his way around pretty well.

He's definitely used to the Maximoff's.

"May I pour you a drink, Clint?"

"Sure," he nods, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He follows Vision further into the kitchen, and it's exactly how he remembered it. "I'll have whatever you're having."

The vase is filled with water, flowers, then set down on the kitchen table. Vision admires it for a moment.

"Ginger ale?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll just grab a beer out of the fridge."

"Well wishes to you, Clint, on this special evening."

"Thanks, man."

"Wanda is a remarkable woman."

"Yeah, she is." Clint nods, popping the cap off his beer. He clinks his bottle against Vision's glass. "They're both so," he trails off. There are too many words that come to mind. Clint goes for the very first. "Awesome."

"Exceptional, really." Vision nods.

"I'll drink to that."

Clint _does_ drink, then nearly spits his beer out at Vision's next statement. Of course, Vision doesn't notice, and he carries on easily, like he expects that Clint already knows all about this. But he doesn't. Or, didn't. Until now. Vision takes another sip of ginger ale, nose wrinkled slightly, as if he can't decide whether he's enjoying it yet or not.

"What did you say?"

Vision fixes Clint with an odd, mildly concerned, look. "I said the weather is rather un—"

"No, no that. The other thing before that."

"In regards to Wanda?"

"Yep."

"The internship in D.C? I assumed you knew?"

"Oh, yeah." Clint gulps down another sip of beer. "I did. I mean, _do_. I do know about that. She's a great kid. Plenty of brains. And talent."

"It will be an adjustment, I'm sure."

"When does she leave?" Clint asks, when what he really means to ask is: _when do they leave? _

He swallows down more beer.

"Three weeks."

Clint's stomach twists up into knots. He feels sick. And not because of the booze, he's not even halfway through his beer yet, no, it's because of Washington. The news of Wanda's big internship that Clint knew nothing about. He consoles himself with the fact that maybe Pietro doesn't know either, and this could possibly be a big surprise for the both of them.

"Oh. That's pretty soon."

"Quite an adjustment, but I am certain that if anyone can adapt, it will be those two."

 _Two._

Clint swallows, hard, over the lump in his throat.

The beer goes down easily.

Vision continues to make small talk, blissfully unaware of Clint's anxiety (he's a little twitchy and uncomfortable, but Vision doesn't seem to notice). Clint's head snaps up when Wanda enters the room. She looks incredible in a little black dress, with dark red lipstick on, and her long hair falling in curls over her shoulders. Clint feels kind of underdressed in comparison. He shifts, toying with the sleeves of his jacket. Pietro appears, shortly after, in a baby-blue shirt and a pair of dark jeans. His entire face lights up at the sight of Clint.

He kisses Clint on the cheek and spends the whole drive to the restaurant with an arm slung over Clint's shoulder in the back of Vision's car, telling Clint all about his day, how he and Wanda went shopping and grabbed a bite to eat at this new sushi place they have to try, and all Clint can think about is how Pietro's leaving in three weeks.

For most of the night, Clint plays along.

He's not sure how he does it, but he sits through it, and drinks wine, talks work and life and even spins a circus story or two. It's tough, and confusing, and Clint's really not sure how much more of it he can endure. Then, while he's skimming over the dessert menu, and Wanda's busy making eyes at Vision across the table, Pietro excuses himself for the bathroom.

Clint gives it a moment, then climbs to his feet.

"I'm not feeling so great. You mind telling Pietro that I'm," he trails off. _I'm sorry._ "I'm going home. I'll get a cab back to my place. Really, you should all stay. I'm just—I should probably leave. Yeah."

Wanda, with a glass of red wine glass poised to her lips, frowns at him. Clint hates disappointing her. "What are you talking abou? You can't. This was for you."

"Raincheck?"

"You're not well?" Vision asks, a slight pinch to his brow as he glances down at their empty plates. "I wonder, has the food upset you?"

"I had a really late night. Think it's catching up to me."

He can tell that Wanda doesn't believe him.

He still leaves.

It's not at all like Clint pictured it—the night is different, now, changed in a way that he can't really explain. Not to Wanda, and not like this. Clint throws on his jacket and rushes for the door. He'll get a cab. It's better this way, he thinks. It's better that Pietro doesn't try to stop him. He gets to the curb and across the street, and doesn't even realize that Pietro's following him until he calls out, making Clint stop dead in his tracks; he briefly closes his eyes, wanting nothing more than to avoid _this._

Pietro grabs his arm gently. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"Vision will drive us, if you aren't well."

"No, no, not yours. Mine."

"I'll come with you."

Clint shakes off his hand and turns to face him. "Don't. It can't be like that. I'm not going home with you. Not when I know what I know, and you weren't even the one to tell me. Vision did. He told me."

"What did he say?" Pietro asks warily.

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"I know about Wanda and D.C."

For a very small, fleeting moment, Clint holds onto the hope that maybe, just _maybe,_ Pietro doesn't know. But he does. It's so obvious now, in everything that he does. In the way that he watches Clint, with eyes blown wide. The way his mouth hangs open, like there's so much that he wants to say and he just doesn't know where to start.

Clint's not sure that he wants to hear it.

It stings.

It _stings_ , maybe more than it should.

"You have to listen to me," Pietro starts.

"Tell me I'm wrong about this. That I've got it all wrong. I wanna be wrong." Clint says. And when Pietro reaches for him, he gently brushes his hand away. "You only just found out, right? Tell me you didn't know. That you're not leaving in three weeks."

 _Tell me you're not leaving me,_ is what he really means to say. But it sounds selfish and wrong, so Clint can't put a voice to it, even if the words are itching beneath his skin, begging to be spoken.

Pietro's mouth works.

No words come out, and yeah, that's exactly what Clint thought. Pietro deflates a little. Clint doesn't like being right about this, of all things. Something in Pietro's jaw twitches as he looks away, and down the dimly lit street, then back to Clint. He looks sad. Clint wants to go back to Wednesday morning, to waking up with Pietro in his bed and kissing every inch of his body, to holding his hand on an afternoon walk, to trading stories and kisses over dinner.

"You're leaving." Clint says. It sounds odd and strained, and nothing like him. "How long—"

"It isn't my internship. I can visit all the time."

"That's not what I'm asking. How long have you known about it? This morning? Yesterday? A week ago? I wanna know how long. Was it right back at the start?" he asks. The way Pietro's face falls says it all. "This whole time."

"Clint,"

That's all he manages to get out, at first. Too much left unsaid. Clint lifts a hand to the back of his neck, just for something to do with his hands, because _god_ , this sucks, and it's hitting him way too hard. This isn't his life or his choice. He shouldn't feel so wronged.

But he does. It's not exactly a nice feeling.

"Please—"

"All those times you wanted honesty. Wanted me to tell you every little thing about me, so I did, and you knew."

"This is different, Clint." Pietro insists. "It is."

"How?"

 _"Clint."_

"It's not even a little different."

"This isn't about me. You have to see that." Pietro takes a tentative step forward. A hand goes to Clint's arm again, gripping his elbow lightly, as if he's afraid that this touch is the only thing keeping Clint here. "This is about Wanda and her future. I had to consider what I was going to do, not just for us, but for her. This is very different."

"How?"

"Because I would have asked you to come with me," he says, almost shouts that last part. "That's how. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I meant to tell you."

"When?"

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

Pietro shifts on his feet. "The right moment."

That's just the thing, Clint thinks sadly. Whenever you're counting on one of those moments, they so rarely come around. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep all the little things he wants to himself.

"I don't want an apology." Clint says. "You deserve to be happy. And if you've gotta to be in D.C for that to happen, then that's just how it has to be."

* * *

[9:39PM]:

That offer for drinks still good?

 **[9:42PM]:**

 **yea man**

 **[9:44PM]:**

 **thought you n the bf had plans for tonite?**

[9:48PM]:

Yeah. We did. But plans change.

[9:51PM]:

.. **..**

[9:52PM]:

Can you pick me up?

 **[9:55PM]:**

 **sure its not a problem man you just owe me a pack of camels. i know you took mine at stark's party. so where am i picking you up frm? a denny's? vegas?  
**

[9:58PM]:

I don't know

 **[10:04PM]:**

 **you dont know**

[10:05PM]:

Nope

[10:07PM]:

Didn't drive here. I went for a walk and now I'm lost

[10:09PM]:

Outside a pizza place if that helps

 **[10:11PM]:**

 **send me the address. i should b there soon ish probably. wherever "there" is.. i mean unless "there" is somewhere i dont wanna go**

[10:16PM]:

Thanks man. Appreciate it

 **[10:19PM]:**

 **leaving now**

 **[10:20PM]:**

 **superman to the rescue**

[10:23PM]:

I should've just called Steve.

* * *

[10:28PM] MISSED CALL: WANDA

[10:42PM] MISSED CALL: WANDA

* * *

 **Pietro Maximoff**

where are u? ?

wanda tried to call but u didnt answer

I just need to know u arent hurt

clint?

please be safe

we dnt have to talk about this now ok clint? we can do it tmrw or the next day or never. just let me or wanda know that u are ok. please.

* * *

 **(5) New Messages**

 **(3) Missed Calls  
**

 **(1) New Voicemail**

* * *

+unknown number

 _[10:54PM]:_

 _Clint, this is Vision. Are you well?_

[11:01PM]:

yea never been bettr

 _[11:03PM]:_

 _Are you intoxicated, Clint?_

 _[11:04PM]:_

 _Perhaps you are in need of a transportation?_

[11:06PM]:

yes nd no

 _[11:13PM]:_

 _Very well. I will inform Wanda and Pietro of your response. Clint, are you quite sure you're well? Had I known that you lacked actual knowledge of Wanda's internship, then I would have kept such information to myself._

 _[11:14PM]:_

 _It was never my intention to upset you._

 _[11:17PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[11:18PM]:_

 _I feel as though I am to blame for this distress. For that, I apologize. Matters of the heart are quite delicate. I should have handled it with much more care. I am sorry, Clint, you must know that._

[11:20PM]:

gnite vishy. tell evrybody to stop callingm e. im done

* * *

SAT 20 JUNE

Clint would stay in bed all day, if the sheets didn't smell like Pietro. Instead, he drinks plenty of beer and sleeps on the couch, and doesn't touch his phone for two whole days. When he plugs it into the wall to charge, a single Facebook message pops up on the screen (and several texts from a very concerned Steve Rogers, of course).

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i dont want to lose you

He swipes it away and goes for a shower and tries to not think about how, days earlier, Pietro had been in here too, had been crammed into the narrow glass cubicle, how he slept in Clint's bed and wore Clint's clothes.

Everything reminds him of Pietro, and it's super rude.

* * *

MON 22 JUNE

The message makes something in Clint's chest tighten. He stares at it until the words all blur together, until they mean nothing and everything, and he's not sure what to make of them, all he know is that it hurts.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

are you there? i thought you would like some space so i tried to give you some. but i miss you. and i thought you should know that i always wanted you to come with us..

and i still do

is this something you could want?

 **Clint Barton:**

There's nothing for me in D.C.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

not even me?

or Wanda? we care about you

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah? Obviously not enough to tell me.

Look, I get that I'm not your actual family. I've known you weeks, not months, or years. I'm the guy on the outside. I get that. I guess I just felt like things were different. Like we'd known each other all my life.

But we haven't

And I see that now

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i dont want to do this over here

can we please talk?

not like this

i need to see you. to explain

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm busy

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

all day? then what about tonight?

or this afternoon

 **Clint Barton:**

What's there to say?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

im sorry

 **Clint Barton:**

Me too

* * *

TUES 23 JUNE

 **[12:22AM]:**

 **really not gonna see him?**

 **[12:23AM]:**

 **thats cold man. ice cold**

 **[12:26AM]:**

 **but after what happend, im not gonna say he probably doesnt deserve that... maybe you should go? whats the worst that could happen?**

[12:31AM]:

Seriously? What's the worst that could happen?

[12:33AM]:

I could find out (from someone else, BTW. Not from him) that he's moving to D.C. Of all places, D.C. He's moving in 3 weeks and didn't bother telling me. Kinda makes me wonder if he was ever going to tell me, or if he would've just left.

 **[12:36AM]:**

 **so he told 1 little lie havent we all**

[12:38AM]:

You give crappy advice.

 **[12:40AM]:**

 **i know**

 **[12:41AM]:**

 **listen man all im saying is he seemed like a good kid. he did. sweet and young. maybe he panicked n didnt know how to tell you so he kept it to himself.**

 **[12:44AM]:**

 **or maybe he got scared that youd say no?  
**

[12:45AM]:

He could've asked.

 **[12:48AM]:**

 **man i know you ok. you wouldve said no**

[12:51AM]:

Guess we'll never know.

* * *

THURS 25 JUNE

 _[3:28PM]:_

 _Clint, a word?_

[3:47PM]:

If you're here to play messenger, man, don't bother. Not really in the mood for it.

 _[3:49PM]:_

 _A word of advice._

 _[3:50PM]:_

 _From a friend, not a messenger._

[3:53PM]:

Alright. Let's hear it.

 _[4:07PM]:_

 _Despite his actions, Pietro's intentions were pure. Good. He had intended to speak of this to you, Clint. I would ask that you hear him out.  
_

[4:10PM]:

We already talked.

 _[4:11PM]:_

 _Three days ago?_

[4:15PM]:

Wait, I thought you weren't here to play messenger? So what's your advice? "Hear him out"? Well I already did. It didn't change anything.

 _[4:17PM]:_

 _I see._

[4:23PM]:

Thanks for the advice.

 _[4:25PM]:_

 _What it really comes down to, Clint, is this: can you imagine your life without him? Is it worse? You have your answer._

[4:27PM]:

It's not that easy.

 _[4:30PM]:_

 _It rarely is. But you still have your answer, don't you?  
_

[4:33PM]:

Yeah.

* * *

MON 29 JUNE  


 **Pietro Maximoff:**

are things finished then

is that what you want

 **Clint Barton:**

I never said that.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

but you havent said anything

you wont tell me what you want

 **Clint Barton:**

What do you want me to say?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

nothing

i dont know

 **Clint Barton:**

Well that's all I've got. Nothing.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i already said it

im sorry

i meant to tel you about DC

**tell

 **Clint Barton:**

But you didn't

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

but i didnt

i know that ok

 **Clint Barton:**

It's great news. Really. Good for Wanda. She'll be great in life, whatever path she decides to take. I bet she'll love it there. You too, probably.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

have you ever been?

 **Clint Barton:**

That your way of asking me if I want to tag along? Not sure if I would, even if I could. Things feel different now.

Don't beat yourself up about it.

Things change

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

but i dont want them to

 **[DRAFT] Clint Barton:**

I don't want anything to change. I don't want you to go. I don't want you to leave me. Everybody leaves.

 **Clint Barton:**

You leave in 2 weeks. That's a pretty big change.

Are you excited?

You're young. You should be excited.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

why are you happy about this?

 **Clint Barton:**

Wouldn't be a very good friend if I wasn't happy for you, would I? Soo I'm trying. Maybe D.C. isn't for me, but you two will love it. You can go to NY. It's not that far, just a car ride away. Lots to see. Great bars. You'll love it.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

you arent going to come are you

 **Clint Barton:**

No, kid. I'm not.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

why not? because i didnt tell you?

im sorry

i should have and i wanted to

i dont want to lose you

 **Clint Barton:**

You're not losing me that easy.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

really? it feels like i am

i dont want you to be happy about this

i want you to come with me

to tell me if things are over or not

talk to me

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm mad. Ok? I'm mad that you felt like you couldn't tell me. That you wanted honesty, to know every little thing about me and my past, and yet this was kept secret. You wanna know how it made me feel?

Like maybe this was a fling to you

That you'd always planned on leaving

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

you have to know that isnt true

can i please call

or come over ?

i have to speak to you

 **Clint Barton:**

Not tonight.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

why not?

 **Clint Barton:**

I've had a couple drinks. Not a good idea.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

tomorrow then?

 **Clint Barton:**

Tomorrow.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

what time should i call

 **Clint Barton:**

Swing by 1pm. Don't be late.

* * *

To: clintfbarton  
Subject: [Clint, we just added a TV show you might like]  
From: infonetflix  
Date: Mon, 29 June 2015 7:21PM

 **VIEW ALL TV SHOWS & MOVIES**

* * *

TUES 30 JUNE

Pietro isn't late. He rocks up at midday in a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pietro's nervous, Clint realizes, as they move through the house and into the kichen. Clint waits for the kettle to boil and fixes them both a cup of coffee. When he spares a brief glance in Pietro's direction, he finds the younger man leaning up against the doorframe, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. He looks to Clint, almost coyly.

"Are you still mad?"

"Not really."

"You should be."

Clint exhales a weary sigh. "Yeah, well, I'm tired of being mad." he says, flattening his hands on the counter. "Of not giving things a chance. So, that's what I'm doing. I'm giving us that chance. Let's talk."

Pietro nods and drags a chair out at the table.

"Not in here," Clint amends. "Outside."

"Why?"

"Because I—" he stops himself. _Because I can't. Because there are memories in here and in every other room of my house, and I can't deal with how it all feels right now._

"Is there something wrong with this room?"

"No, it's not that."

"We had dinner in here." Pietro fondly recalls. He runs a hand over the back of a wooden chair, then across the polished wooden table, his touch reverent and careful. "I would like to do that again. This time, I will cook. Wanda taught me this recipe that you—"

"Stop. Please, stop."

"What?"

"I can't talk about this."

"Why not?"

It's so quiet that Clint nearly misses it. He almost wishes that he had. Tentatively, Pietro takes a step closer. Clint lifts his head, just in time to see the look on Pietro's face, before the younger man is pressed against his back: he's holding onto Clint, tight, arms wrapped around his torso and chin resting on his shoulder.

He feels his resolve crumble.

 _Why not?_

"Because I wanna be mad at you," Clint says. "And when I think about that stuff, or I sit in here and remember that night, I can't be. I'm tired of being mad, but I don't know how to stop."

"Be what you need to be, just don't push me away."

"That's the thing," he hesitates.

"What?" Pietro asks, so close that he's radiating warmth, so close his breath tickles Clint's neck. "What is it?"

"I'm not the one going somewhere."

Clint gently unwinds Pietro's arms from around his waist, then turns to face him. In that one second, he had looked equal parts vulnerable and miserable, and so goddamn young. He still looks it, now, even as he tries to piece it all back together. Clint sighs. He doesn't _want_ to be mad, no, not really. But that doesn't stop it from flaring up.

"I _am_ mad at you. God, I'm—I'm kicking myself over this. I don't know what to think about any of it." Clint drags a hand back through his hair, pushes himself away from the counter, far away from Pietro, all thoughts of coffee pushed to the farthest corner of his mind.

"Do you want me to stay? Is that it?"

"Would it matter even if I did?"

"How can you ask that?" Pietro's tone grows accusatory. Of all things to do next, he rolls his eyes. "Yes, it matters, old man. It always mattered. How can you ask me that?"

"Forget I asked."

"You want me to stay."

Clint throws his hands up. "I want you to be honest with me and tell me when something this huge is happening in your life. You don't just push it aside and hope it goes away. Trust me, it won't. It never does."

"I thought it was too soon."

"There was time."

"You can still come with me." Pietro takes a small, and somewhat cautious, step forward, like he's considering reaching for Clint. He changes his mind at the very last moment.

"I can't."

He thinks of Lucky, of his friends and the business he's still trying to get up and running, of his favorite bar. The farm. _Laura._ It's all here. All of it, except for Pietro, soon; that thought that settles heavily in the pit of his stomach. Clint reluctantly meets Pietro's gaze.

"My life is here. It's not that easy to just pack it all up," he argues. "And never come back."

"We could build a life there. Together."

"I can't." Clint presses his lips into a thin line.

"Are you afraid?"

"Of what?" he frowns.

In the same breath, Clint realizes what Pietro's getting at: afraid of leaving. This is Clint's life, has been for years, he hasn't known anything else. And Pietro knows that. It feels like an insult. A sharp dig at his quiet little life in the middle of nowhere, with very little to show for himself, apart from all those half-finished jobs.

But Pietro isn't mean. He wouldn't make a jab like that.

"I'm not leaving," he says. "And I get the feeling you're not staying. What's so great about D.C. anyway?"

"Maybe you should leave this place." Pietro says.

Clint's inner-child can't help but retort: "Yeah? Maybe you shouldn't." he says. "But we both know you will."

"I have to be with Wanda."

"Why? It's her internship, not yours."

"You know why."

"I do." Clint nods. The words are out of his mouth before he can hit pause, and give them a quick, careful review: "Because you don't know what your life looks like when it's got nothing to do with hers."

Pietro shoots him a tight-lipped smile. "Really?"

"Yeah. If I'm afraid of leaving, then you're scared of being away from her. Of realizing that you don't know what you want from life," he says. "So you follow her around while she lives hers."

"Mm." Pietro nods. He makes a small, displeased noise in the back of his throat. "Well, at least I want to live my life. I'm not afraid to."

"I'm not afraid."

"Let me ask you something," Pietro says, eyes narrowed slightly, a crease to his brow. "Just one thing, then if you want me to leave, I will. One thing. Are you happy here?"

 _Happy enough,_ Clint nearly says.

After all, he's had it much worse over the years. This life, with his farm and his dog, and all the odd jobs around town, has been nothing but good to him. It suits him, in a way that he always quietly worried wouldn't suit Pietro.

"Not right now, no, I'm not. Not when we're like this."

"That's not an answer."

"It's all I've got." Clint shrugs. He picks up his coffee and drinks from the mug, but it tastes different, somehow. It's not bad, just different. When he looks back to Pietro, he realizes the younger man is still standing there, is watching him like he expects something else, different, _more_. Clint sighs and says, "You can go now."

"Don't do this. Not after—not after all of _that._ " Pietro says, his voice breaks a little on the word. "I don't want to lose you, or leave things like this."

Clint sets his mug down, then reaches for Pietro, fingers snaking around his wrist, pulling him closer. A slowness overcomes his voice, when he next speaks, ducking his head slightly to meet Pietro's eyes.

"What'd I say about that? Hm? It's not that easy to get rid of me. This isn't easy, but do you see me walking away? I said I'd stick around, so that's what I'm doing."

It's the closest they've ever come to calling it quits, Clint realizes. He doesn't let go, his fingers still looped around Pietro's wrist loosely, and Pietro doesn't pull away. The kitchen grows quiet and the coffee grows cold and Clint still doesn't move away. Not an inch. When Pietro kisses him, sudden and urgent, Clint grips the back of his neck and kisses him back with twice as much urgency.

He won't even pretend that it isn't laced with apologies and goodbyes; the kiss is far sweeter because of it.

* * *

THURS 2 JULY

[7:53AM]:

I took your advice.

[7:53AM]:

.. **..**

[7:55AM]:

Tried to imagine my life without him in it.

 _[8:14AM]:_

 _If I might ask, what conclusion did you come to?_

[8:21AM]:

Oh it sucked. Massively.

[8:24AM]:

You helped me see that.

 _[8:36AM]:_

 _Then I am glad to have been of some use._

[8:55AM]:

Don't know what to do next. I thought about it. A lot. Life won't be the same without him in it, but he's still leaving.

 _[9:01AM]:_

 _And you discussed this with Pietro?_

[9:03AM]:

Sorta.

 _[9:08AM]:_

 _Remember, Clint, a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts._

[9:15AM]:

What's that supposed to mean?

[9:16AM]:

So you think we should call it quits? First, you tell me to picture life without him, so I do, and it sucks. Now you're telling me it won't last?

 _[9:20AM]:_

 _You misunderstand me, Clint. It's precisely as I said: a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts. Yes, this particular stage of your relationship has changed and, in a sense, is over. It did not last. It was still enjoyable, wasn't it? And quite beautiful?  
_

[9:22AM]:

.. **..**

[9:26AM]:

Yeah. It's been something else.

 _[9:30AM]:_

 _You're certain you won't accompany Pietro?_

[9:35AM]:

Yeah, I'm sure. Mostly.

 _[9:38AM]:_

 _Mostly?_

[9:40AM]:

I can't go.

 _[9:44AM]:_

 _Understood._

 _[9:45AM]:_

 _Might I ask why?_

[9:49AM]:

My life is here. If I leave, then I'm putting it all on the line. Not sure I can risk that anymore. Maybe if I was his age, yeah, but I'm not. There's all this stuff to consider. Even if I wanted to, I can't throw it all away on something that might not even work out in the long run. Whatever.

[9:51AM]:

Gotta go. Thanks for the talk.

* * *

SAT 4 JULY

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

happy independence day

[party popper emoji]

 **Clint Barton:**

Happy 4th. x

* * *

SUN 5 JULY  


"Jesus, Steve, stop yelling."

 _"Nobody's yelling."_

"I'm gonna need you to take it down an octave."

 _"For the last time, Clint, nobody's—"_

Clint winces, ripping the phone away from his ear. He's not really in the mood for one of Steve's lectures. It's way too early for that, he decides. The marching band playing on his brain is pretty unrelenting. Clint holds the iPhone in the general vicinity of his face, before he tentatively brings it back up to his ear.

"You done?" Clint asks.

 _"Are you?"_

"I'd say I'm more medium-rare."

 _"Clint."_

"Yes, mom. I'm done."

 _"Haven't been answering my texts."_

This, Clint thinks, is usually the part where Steve breaks into an old fashioned lecture about mobile phones (and what are they good for, if you don't even answer them? _"They're called 'mobile' for a reason, Clint. Bring it with you, so I know you're not in trouble. Mobile. It can be carried with you"_.) But he doesn't do that. Instead, his voice seems to soften. This is usually the part where he gives Clint the opportunity to opt out of the conversation.

Clint could easily do that, but he won't.

 _"I take it things didn't go well with Pietro then."_

"Oh, see, that actually depends on what your definition of 'well' is. So." Clint explains. He precariously balances the phone between ear and shoulder as he wanders into the kitchen and works on fixing a fresh pot of coffee.

 _"That bad, huh?"_

"Again, that depends on what your definition of _—_ "

 _"Clint."_

"Alright, alright. He came over."

 _"What, last night?"_

"Nope. Earlier in the week."

 _"Then what'd you do last night? You sound,"_ Steve trails off.

"Hungover? That's 'cause I am." Clint smirks. "It was the Fourth of July, man, so I got super drunk."

 _"And?"_

"And I watched Beaches."

There's some minor interference on the other end of the line, a faint rustle, like Steve's moving around a lot, then Bucky's voice rings out into the silence. _"Did you cry? Oh, man, I can hear it in your voice. You totally cried."_

"Shut up."

 _"Dude."_

"Bette Midler, man." is Clint's defense.

The sound of uproarious laughter echoes down the line. Bucky's seriously such a dick. Soon enough, though, the laughter is replaced by Steve's voice. Clint realizes, then, that he's forgotten all about the coffee. He's standing in the middle of his kitchen, wearing nothing but briefs and socks, is a little cold, hungry, and kind of lonely.

 _"Not now, Buck."_

"He's chirpy."

 _"Yeah, well, it's a weekend. You know how he loves those."_ Steve murmurs. _"When did you see him? Pietro. If not last night, then when? You didn't call back, or answer any of my texts, so I assumed things were either really good between the two of you or really bad."_

"They're neither, I guess."

 _"How so?"_

"We didn't break up."

 _"But?"_

"I don't know, Steve. We didn't break up," Clint lifts a hand to his face, scratches at the stubble growing along his jaw. "But I'm not going to D.C., and he's not gonna stay here, so I'm just here wondering what the point is."

 _"The point? Of being together?"_

"Yeah. Maybe."

 _"Long-distance relationships can work."_

"Can they? I wouldn't know."

 _"You might as well give it a shot."_ Steve encourages.

"Well, I saw Pietro on Thursday, and we haven't spoken much since." Clint says. "Not sure if there's anything left to give a shot."

 _"If you didn't break up,"_ Steve says, and he must pull away from the phone for a second, because his voice grows a little distant. _"And you didn't come to any conclusions, then what did you do on Thursday?"_

"We talked. A little."

 _"You talked?"  
_

"Yep. Words were exchanged."

Steve makes a pleased noise. _"Good. You discussed D.C.?"  
_

"It got a bit ugly." Clint quietly admits. "Some comments were made. Not so nice stuff, about aspirations and life. Shit like that. It got tense."

 _"Clint,"_ he sighs. _"What did you say?"_

"Why do you assume I was the one that said something dumb? Alright, fine. I might've implied that he's afraid of being apart from his sister, 'cause he doesn't know what his life is like when it's not attached to hers. That maybe he didn't know what he wanted out of life," he pauses. It doesn't sound like something Clint would think, let alone say. He winces a little. "So he just follows her, 'cause he can't figure it out. Stuff like that."

 _"Right."_

"Yeah."

 _"I see how it might've gotten tense."_

"Wasn't fun."

 _"And what did he say?"_

"Oh, something along the lines of me not wanting to live my life." Clint says. "Of being afraid to. I'm scared to live, apparently, which is awesome." _  
_

Steve dwells on that for a long moment. _"Are you?"_

"Am I awesome? Shit yeah."

 _"No, not awesome. Afraid to live."_ he presses.

"I'm happy where I am, Steve."

 _"Not what I asked."_

"Jesus, man, I'm not doing this again."

 _"Then I'll leave it alone."_

"Good." Clint nods.

 _"Good."_ a pause. _"What happened next?"_

"There was less talking."

 _"It doesn't sound very amicable to me, Clint. And you said you didn't split up? It kind of sounds like you did."_

"We didn't break up. Not that I know of."

Clint drops into a plush armchair in the living room and sips on his coffee, with the iPhone still nestled between shoulder and ear. The very last thing he expects of Steve is for the other man to laugh, warm and fond.

 _"You'd be the last to know."_

"I know." Clint snickers.

 _"So? What happened?"_

"We might've slept together."

 _"Might've?"_

"Twice."

 _"And you think that was smart?"_

Clint falters, nearly says: he asked me if I was happy and it escalated. Maybe it wasn't smart. Clint's got this habit, when it comes to love, when it comes to _Pietro_. He tends to put all of his cards on the table, without considering what happens next. It probably wasn't smart. Clint didn't get to say half the things he wanted to.

"Easy, Steve, we're all consenting adults here."

 _"Not what I'm getting at and you know it."_

"I don't care if it wasn't smart."

 _"You said it yourself, Clint, he's leaving,"_ Steve says, gently, almost pitifully. _"And you're not. You're not going with him. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do."  
_

"We had sex." Clint says, between sips of deliciously hot, bitter coffee. "We didn't get hitched."

 _"I know, I know. I'm just looking out for you."_

"Well, don't."

 _"Clint."_

"Don't stress, Steve. I'm fine."

And in that moment, Clint doesn't know who he's trying to convince more: Steve or himself. It doesn't matter, not really, because he's certain that neither of them are even a little convinced.

 _"What will you do?"_

"I'm gonna drink the rest of this coffee, then I'm gonna put on some pants and meet Nat for lunch. And before you ask, Barnes, no you can't tag along."

 _"I meant about Pietro."_ Steve replies. _"If you're planning on ending things, Clint, then do it gently. He's young."_

"The only major decisions I'm making today," Clint says, sinking down into the armchair. "Will be about lunch."

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

We need to talk.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ruh roh.


	37. Chapter 37

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Tony**

* * *

SUN 5 JULY

 **Clint Barton:**

We need to talk.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

about? this sounds very serious

are u breaking up with me :p

 **Clint Barton:**

What? No.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

then what is it?

 **Clint Barton:**

It's about us, dummy. But not that. We should talk. Some things were said. You know, not very nice stuff. I guess I just wanna clear the air. Make sure we're good.

Are we?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

didnt we already do this

 **Clint Barton:**

Kinda. In a way.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

we should do it again yes

 **Clint Barton:**

I wouldn't exactly call that talking.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

but it was fun wasnt it?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, yeah. It was. But that's not the point.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

ok so what is the point Mr. Very Serious Man

 **Clint Barton:**

You didn't answer the question.

Are we good?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

we are

 **Clint Barton:**

What happens next? You're leaving soon.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i thought i made this clear

clint i dont want to lose you n i dont want to leave things like this either but you know what i want

 **Clint Barton:**

And you know what I want.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

i know

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't see a way around this. Do we go on a break?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

no i dont want that

i think we both know what a break means

we will just have to make it work

 **Clint Barton:**

You think we can?

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

there is only one way to find out. i think we should try

 **Clint Barton:**

Alright. Let's give this thing a shot. x

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

you really want to do this?

i thought you might want to end things

 **Clint Barton:**

Why would I do that?

I'm not gonna do that.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

because i didnt tell you about dc

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm over it. Or I will be soon.

 **Pietro Maximoff:**

really?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yes, really. Don't stress too much We'll figure it out, just like we always do.

* * *

[6:26PM]:

He's going and there's nothing I can do to stop him, Nat. I can't change his mind so I said we'd give it a shot. That we'd make it work.

[6:29PM]:

But I don't know what to do. I'm no good at this.

[6:32PM]:

Could really use your expertise right about now.

* * *

[6:45PM]: INCOMING CALL: NAT

* * *

TUES 28 JULY

Pietro leaves. He doesn't come by the house again.

It's probably better that way, Clint thinks.

Three weeks pass by in the blink of an eye, and he's still gone. Clint drinks, probably more than he should, throws himself into work, and into fixing up a farmhouse that's starting to feel less like a home with each day that drags on by.

"Miss me?" Pietro asks, late one afternoon.

His voice crackles down the line, nearly drowed out by the sound of traffic and laughter and soft acoustic music that's playing somewhere in the background.

Clint doesn't really know how to put it into words, but all he has now are relics of the relationship: an empty photo album and a delicate mug, and a whirlwind of memories. He doesn't know how to sum it all up, just how much he misses Pietro. Even if he could think of the right words, getting them out is a whole different story.

"Like a hole in the head." is all he can think to say.

Always, with the jokes. The one-liner makes Pietro laugh, at least, so Clint decides it's worth it.

He sends Clint a photo—of himself. In a busy café, with a huge smile plastered across his face. The same, and yet so different. It might break Clint's heart, just a little. But it has to be this way. In his spare moments, Clint replies to Wanda's texts, tries to schedule phone calls and Skype dates, writes up dozens of messages that he swears he'll send. One day. Later, another photo comes through from _witchy_wanda._

The two of them, at that same café.

Wanda's hair is shorter, cut to just below her shoulders, and Pietro has the most impressive milk moustache that Clint's ever seen. He's grinning right at the camera and it brightens Clint's whole day up.

* * *

FRI 31 JULY

 _[10:38AM]:_

 _eyyy its me (piet) got the new number all set up now thx to wanda. xx (she made me type that to everyone, please send hlep. shes so mad abt the bill)_

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _**help_

[10:53AM]:

Hey, that's great. I'm happy to hear from you both.

[10:57AM]:

I just saved your number under "Brat #4". That way, I can tell all my boyfriends apart. Otherwise things get messy. I don't want any feelings getting hurt. Xx

 _[11:06AM]:_

 _i saved u under "Old Man #7" in mine_

[11:09AM]:

I'm so flattered.

[11:11AM]:

Alright, alright. I changed yours to "Quicksilver." Happy?

 _[11:14AM]:_

 _very much_

[11:20AM]:

Good. How are things with Wanda and her internship? Is she enjoying it? It's the fashion thing, right?

 _[11:25AM]:_

 _yes :-) she is. And it is a "fashion thing"_

[11:39AM]:

Glad to hear it. What about you?

 _[11:42AM]:_

 _what about me?_

 _[11:45AM]:_

 _oh i started working bar shifts_

[11:48AM]:

Glad to hear it. So are you enjoying D.C. and all it has to offer? You like your new job?

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _most of the time yes_

[12:03PM]:

Then I'm happy for you :-)

 _[12:06PM]:_

 _really? i know this isnt what you wanted to happen_

[12:08PM]:

This was always gonna happen, whether I wanted it to or not. Am I happy for you? Of course I am. So of course I'll support you. It's not that easy to get rid of me.

[12:11PM]:

You have to know that I only want what's best for you.

 _[12:15PM]:_

 _why would i want to get rid of my favorite old man?_

[12:17PM]:

Hell of a compliment.

 _[12:20PM]:_

 _well my 4th favorite_

[12:22PM]:

I'll take it.

 _[12:27PM]:_

 _the apartment is so big. plenty of room for u here_

[12:31PM]:

I'll give you two some time to settle in. Then I'll visit. You should enjoy this, kid. Everything I said to you, way back before you left for Washington, it wasn't true. Not really. I never wanted to stand in the way of what you want.

 _[12:33PM]:_

 _you are never in the way_

[12:35PM]:

Yeah? Thanks.

[12:37PM]:

Guess I just got scared of losing you, so I said things. I'd take it all back if I could.

 _[12:40PM]:_

 _you wont lose me_

[12:44PM]:

You're a good brother. I shoud've said it sooner.

 _[12:47PM]:_

 _we have put it all behind us_

 _[12:50PM]:_

 _our neighbor has a fluffy dog do u want to see it? his name is Milo_

[1:03PM]:

The answer to that question is always yes.

[1:09PM]:

Hey?

 _[1:11PM]:_

 _yes?_

[1:15PM]:

I'm glad you got a new phone.

 _[1:18PM]:_

 _so is wanda_

 _[1:24PM]:_

 _i have to pay the bill :(_

[1:28PM]:

I'll chip in. You were calling me so it's kinda my fault.

 _[1:30PM]:_

 _not going to happen old man haha_

 _[1:34PM]:_

 _im glad i have a phone now too_

[1:37PM]:

We might talk more. It'll be good for us.

 _[1:39PM]:_

 _i found milo n stanley!_

[1:45PM]:

Stanley?

 _[1:46PM]:_

 _milo has a brother_

 _[1:48PM]:_

 _hes a cat_

[1:51PM]:

I gotta see this.

* * *

SUN 2 AUGUST

[9:22PM]:

Is your dad Liam Neeson? Because I'm Taken with you.

 _[9:38PM]:_

 _that was so terrible_

 _[9:40PM]:_

 _i love it xx_

* * *

TUES 4 AUGUST

[6:55PM]:

I'll be there in 10, Sam. Order me a drink.

[6:58PM]:

And before you ask, no, Silver Boy won't be there. It's just us. So buy me whatever you're having. I don't care.

* * *

THURS 6 AUGUST

 _[11:37AM]:_

 _if you were a vegetable you would be a cute-cumber_

* * *

SAT 8 AUGUST

[2:49PM]:

I saw the playlist.

[2:51PM]:

So, like a good boyfriend, I went through and I listened to every song. And I've decided that I want a divorce. It was really awesome getting to know you, but I just can't do it. I can't compromise my morals. You wouldn't know good music if it hit you in the face.

 _[3:05PM]:_

 _ahah a h what? we wld have 2 be married for that, mr. Funny Man. leave my music alone or i will have to take lucky when we divorce_

[3:09PM]:

Haha there's not a chance in hell of that happening. You might be a sweet talker, but you're not that good. Or that sweet. Nobody's keeping Lucky but me.

 _[3:17PM]:_

 _did u rly not like any of the songs?_

[3:24PM]:

I have great taste. So, no.

 _[3:31PM]:_

 _and yet u listened to all of them?_

 _[3:35PM]:_

 _hm since u have such "Great Taste" then why dont u tell me some songs of urs that are better? go ahead_

[3:48PM]:

Literally anything by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

 _[3:51PM]:_

 _they sound old_

[3:55PM]:

You sound old.

 _[3:57PM]:_

 _what_

[4:01PM]:

Nothing.

[4:03PM]:

I can't even talk to you right now.

 _[4:06PM]:_

 _tell me another_

[4:09PM]:

And you won't make fun of them?

 _[4:11PM]:_

 _promise_

[4:14PM]:

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

 _[4:16PM]:_

 _who ?_

[4:19PM]:

I've got one word for you: divorce.

* * *

 _[7:42PM]:_

 _say something romantic_

[8:11PM]:

I want a divorce?

 _[8:15PM]:_

 _try again_

[8:21PM]:

I don't want a divorce?

[8:23PM]:

Wait, wait. I got it. I love you, you pain in the ass.

 _[8:27PM]:_

 _hm thats all u have?_

[8:31PM]:

That's all? I love you, jerk. And I miss you.

 _[8:34PM]:_

 _this is slowly getting better_

[8:36PM]:

I mean it.

 _[8:40PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[8:42PM]:_

 _you miss me?_

[8:45PM]:

Are you kidding? Of course I do. Way too much.

 _[8:49PM]:_

 _is that not a good thing_

[8:57PM]:

No, no, it's good. I think. I've never done this stuff before. Long-distance. You're my first. I thought I'd get used to it, but I still miss you. Two months in and I'm still in this.

[9:01PM]:

You ever think about that last night?

 _[9:04PM]:_

 _all the time_

[9:07PM]:

You still have my sweater

 _[9:13PM]:_

 _well yes since i kept it on purpose_

[9:15PM]:

I know you did.

 _[9:18PM]:_

 _sorry :P_

[9:20PM]:

No you're not.

[9:21PM]:

And don't be. It's all yours now.

 _[9:25PM]:_

 _really? forever n ever n ever_

[9:28PM]:

Really. I wanted you to have it.

[9:30PM]:

Forever and ever and ever. Or until I steal it back.

 _[9:33PM]:_

 _you wouldnt_

[9:37PM]:

Oh I would. But I won't. Am surprised it fits though

 _[9:40PM]:_

 _it might have stretched a little. i made it fit_

 _[9:41PM]:_

 _can i ask u something_

[9:44PM]:

Sure go ahead

 _[9:46PM]:_

 _why is it good if u miss me  
_

[9:51PM]:

Oh, yknow. Cause absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that other mushy stuff. It's not good, I guess. But it's not bad either. I don't know. This made more sense in my head.

 _[9:55PM]:_

 _i think i understand_

[9:57PM]:

Well that makes one of us

 _[10:04PM]:_

 _it hasnt been 2 months u idiot_

[10:06PM]:

Feels like it to me

 _[10:08PM]:_

 _have u been drinking?_

[10:11PM]:

Yea just a little

[10:14PM]:

But not enough that I dont know what I'm saying

 _[10:16PM]:_

 _and what are u saying_

[10:19PM]:

I dunno. I just miss you tonight

 _[10:22PM]:_

 _im not going anywhere_

[10:24PM]:

Atta boy. Now I got a question for you. Why'd you wanna hear something romantic? You miss me or something?

 _[10:25PM]:_

 _or something :P_

[10:29PM]:

That's cute. Alright well how's this for romantic

[10:31PM]:

if I was a cat id spend all 9 lives with you

 _[10:33PM]:_

 _hahahahaha_

[10:35PM]:

That bad?

 _[10:37PM]:_

 _yes but its perfect_

[10:42PM]:

like you can do better

 _[10:46PM]:_

 _i can and will haha_

 _[10:49PM]:_

 _goodnight clint :-)_

[10:55PM]:

Night pietro xx

* * *

SUN 9 AUGUST

 _[9:26AM]:_

 _my doctor says im lacking Vitamin U_

[11:44AM]:

You're sweeping me off my feet all over again, kid.

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _i had a dream about u last night_

[11:53AM]:

Is that another line? Cute.

 _[12:04PM]:_

 _not a line_

[1:27PM]:

What kind of dream? Was it that Clown Thing again?

 _[1:31PM]:_

 _hmm from what I remember it was very very good and no it was just us_

[1:35PM]:

Call me after work and tell me all about it?

* * *

TUES 11 AUGUST

[3:19PM]:

Do you have a mirror in your pocket? 'cause I could see myself in your pants.

 _[3:51PM]:_

 _;-)_

* * *

 _[8:44PM]:_

 _we had pizza for dinner tonight_

 _[8:47PM]:_

 _it made me think of u_

[9:03PM]:

I guess that's sort of romantic. Thanks, I think?

 _[9:05PM]:_

 _very romantic obviously :-)_

[9:17PM]:

Obviously, yeah. What kind of pizza?

 _[9:22PM]:_

 _pepperoni :-) how was your day?_

[9:26PM]:

Super boring. You would've hated it.

 _[9:30PM]:_

 _oh rly why?_

[9:34PM]:

Yes rly. Literally watched paint dry.

 _[9:37PM]:_

 _was this for work or home?_

[9:42PM]:

Work.

[9:43PM]:

Although we never did finish that job in the living room. I should get around to that. Maybe this weekend.

 _[9:45PM]:_

 _we were a little busy_

[9:47PM]:

I think you mean we almost got busy, then Bucky walked in. He's got a knack for ruining moments. That's like his special talent. A superpower. He's good at, right?

 _[9:49PM]:_

 _haha yes i didnt like him very much for doing that_

[9:52PM]:

Neither did I.

[9:54PM]:

You up to much tonight?

 _[10:03PM]:_

 _i was going to put some things away in my room_

[10:07PM]:

You're still not unpacked?

[10:09PM]:

What, are you living out of a box?

 _[10:12PM]:_

 _mostly yes hahaha_

 _[10:15PM]:_

 _all of my shoes are out n sorted_

[10:17PM]:

I bet they are. You like it there?

 _[10:21PM]:_

 _the place is nice yes very different to my old room. not bad different tho_

[10:24PM]:

I get that. I liked your old room.

[10:31PM]:

The curtains were pretty neat

 _[10:33PM]:_

 _neat like tidy? ?_

[10:36PM]:

No neat as in awesome. Cool.

[10:39PM]:

Never thought I'd say that about a set of curtains. Wanda made them, didn't she? And you made me that mug. Best birthday present ever. The two of you are pretty crafty.

 _[10:41PM]:_

 _sometimes i dont understand half of what u say :P_

[10:44PM]:

But you let me keep talking anyway?

 _[10:50AM]:_

 _i like the sound of your voice_

 _[10:51PM]:_

 _did you do much tonight?_

[10:54PM]:

Not really. I had a couple beers and watched a game. But I don't even remember how it ended. Pretty sure I napped through most if it.

 _[11:01PM]:_

 _game of football?_

[11:03PM]:

Baseball

 _[11:06PM]:_

 _well i would fall asleep too_

 _[11:07PM]:_

 _baseball is boring_

[11:11PM]:

I'm just gonna pretend you didn't say that.

 _[11:15PM]:_

 _its still true :-)_

[11:19PM]:

Soo. You like the sound of my voice. Let's talk? I can call you, if you're bored. tell you more about my boring day, maybe even talk about some boring sports ;P

 _[11:23PM]:_

 _no im not bored_

 _[11:25PM]:_

 _i just miss u tonight_

[11:29PM]:

Miss you too

 _[11:31PM]:_

 _call me n tell me all about it x_

* * *

"You really wanna hear about my day?" Clint asks, once the call connects. It wasn't anything too special. Just an ordinary day of work and sleep, and a quick walk through the woods with Lucky after he clocked off. But it's nice, knowing that Pietro's interested in the little things. "So, I wasn't actually serious when I said that."

 _"No?"_

"Nope. It was slow. And quiet. Did I mention slow?"

Pietro laughs quietly, and there's a slight rustle down the line. _"It doesn't sound very fun at all."  
_

"What'd you get up to?"

 _"I went to the gym."_

"That's it?"

 _"It is very hard work, Clint."_

"Hey, no, I'm not saying that it isn't. You spent your whole day at the gym? Good for you. That's great."

 _"Then I came home for pizza."_

"Sounds like a pretty good day to me."

 _"Very good, yes."_

"You really like the sound of my voice?" he asks. "Or was that just you trying to sweet talk me? It kinda feels like it was another line."

 _"I have better lines than that, old man."  
_

"You really do."

Clint turns his head away from the phone, stifles a pretty big yawn behind his hand. For the next twenty minutes, at least, Pietro recaps the events of the last two weeks; he doesn't skip over any important details about his new job, gym life (because apparently that's a thing. Not that Clint would know. He's not really much of a gym person) and all of the new people he's meeting through work and Wanda. It feels like exactly what they need, even if Clint's life does seem a lot quieter in comparison.

 _"Are you still there?"_

"Hm? Oh, yeah. M'here."

 _"You fell asleep, didn't you?"_

"What?" Clint scoffs. "No, no, I didn't. And I gotta say I'm kinda offended you'd ask that. I just like hearing you talk about stuff."

 _"Clint?"_

"Yeah."

 _"Tell me about the circus."_

It catches Clint off guard, for a moment. The question is so casually posed that Pietro could easily brush it off as mild curiousity. Clint hesitates. That was a happier time, so long ago now.

"This isn't another line, is it?"

 _"No,"_ he says. _"I just like hearing you talk about stuff."_

"Okay." Clint hums, nodding slowly to himself. He hasn't talked about it much with Pietro, only once or twice, and that barely scraped the surface. He has years and years worth of stories. "You wanna know why I left? Is that it?

 _"That wasn't why I asked."_

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

 _"But why did you?"_

"It felt like the right time to leave."

 _"Weren't you a clown?"_ Pietro asks, and it sounds like he's smiling. _"Or the man who tamed the lions? Or that tiny man on the bike, cycling around the ring?"_

Clint closes his eyes, tries to imagine what Pietro looks like right now. His room had looked so bare and stripped of all personal belongings. Unfamiliar and strange. It will take time to adjust, Clint knows. Time to settle in. All of Pietro's things are packed up in boxes, like he's unsure, one foot out the door. But his bed had looked almost like it always had, stacked up with a mountain of pillows and covered in plush, soft-looking blankets.

"NEW BED!" Pietro had happily announced via Snapchat, a picture attached of him draped across it like a giant starfish. He sent a video shortly after of Snowball, curled up underneath a pale green blanket. The bedframe was different, no longer wrought iron and painted black, but a rich, dark wood.

"I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like that." Clint says dryly, shifting a little on the bed.

 _"Would you?"_

"I'm not that old. So, yeah, I'd remember."

 _"You were an acrobat."_

"I was. Why the sudden interest?"

 _"Well,"_ a pause. He seems hesitant, when he next speaks, like he doesn't know if he should continue. _"You asked me if I think about our last night. Do you?"_

"You know I do."

 _"On the way over, I saw there was a circus in town."_

"There was?"

 _"Yes."_

"And you wanted to go?"

 _"I wanted us to run away with them."_

Clint laughs, but it doesn't sound like Pietro's joking. Not even a little. And when Clint realizes that, he falls silent, waits for whatever is coming next. It still feels like there's something on Pietro's mind, something beyond _this._

 _"What are you thinking about now?"_

"You," _Always you_ , Clint nearly adds. "In the circus. That was something you really thought about it?"

 _"More of a dream, really."  
_

"I've had those."

But this is different. This is flashes of memories, and the feeling of Pietro's weight on top of him, and newspapers crinkling underneath Clint's back, warm lips on his neck and Pietro's hand down the front of his jeans. The two of them, crammed into the narrow shower cubicle, pressed right up against the glass, a cloud of steam filling Clint's lungs, making it impossible to breathe. And of his life in the circus, and a date at a brightly lit carnival, and all the moments that came after. None of that was a dream.

"What would you have been?"

 _"In the circus?"_

"Yeah."

 _"An acrobat, like you."_

"Very cool."

 _"Are you laughing at me?"_

"Not at you," Clint brings a hand to his mouth and tries to stifle his laughter. It's not even that funny. "But at this. At the idea of you in a leotard. It's just _—_ c'mon, you have to admit, it's a little funny."

 _"For you, yes, but not for me."_

Although he insists that it really isn't that funny, Pietro's laughing within seconds, until he's breathless and there are tears in Clint's eyes. Somewhere along the way, after a dozen stories (one involving a knife-thrower, a juggler, a weekend of bets and way too much alcohol) Clint falls asleep. It's nice, having Pietro's voice so close.

The sound of his laughter is still ringing in Clint's ears as he drifts off.

* * *

WED 12 AUGUST

 _[1:32AM]:_

 _sweet dreams old man xx_

[8:09AM]:

You were in them. So they were. :-)

* * *

To: clintfbarton  
Subject: Pietro Maximoff added a new photo.  
From: fb-info  
Date: Sat, 15 August 3:07PM

Pietro Maximoff added a new photo.  
Like - Comment - Share

 _Wanda Maximoff, Steve Rogers and 9 others reacted to this._

 **[Open Facebook]**

* * *

MON 17 AUGUST

[6:46PM]:

Hey, Steve. You wanna grab a bite to eat?

[6:50PM]:

And yeah, you can drag Bucky along.

* * *

WED 26 AUGUST

[10:09AM]:

Did you sit in a pile of sugar?

[10:10AM]:

'Cause you have a pretty sweet ass.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _ahahahahah this one is my favorite one ok u win!_

[3:31PM]:

Thank you! All I needed to hear.

[3:40PM]:

I know things have been pretty intense for you lately, but maybe we could Skype later on this week? I miss your stupid face. And the sound of your voice.

 _[3:48PM]:_

 _miss your stupid face more xx_

[3:50PM]:

Is that a yes? :-)

 _[3:56PM]:_

 _sometime friday yes ? x_

* * *

FRI 28 AUGUST

 _Pietro M calling..._

08:17 Missed call  
09:34 Missed call

* * *

[12:03PM]:

Hey. Didn't mean to sleep in so late.

[12:08PM]:

Any chance you're still around?

 _[12:15PM]:_

 _it happens when u get old, dw :)_

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _and yes still here x_

[12:21PM]:

Up to much today? Wanna try again?

 _[12:25PM]:_

 _i would but we will b out for lunch_

[1:30PM]:

Sure, not a problem. How bout tonight then?

 _[1:43PM]:_

 _we have plans w/ some of wanda's new friends :-( unless u r going to stay up past bedtime for me? ? and i will break my curfew for u :P we can skype call. like old times_

 _[1:45PM]:_

 _please say yes. i miss ur face_

[1:49PM]:

Me and my face will be here all night. I'm saying yes.

 _[1:54PM]:_

 _good. talk soon? :-)_

[1:58PM]:

You bet. Enjoy lunch x

* * *

SAT 29 AUGUST

 _[1:15AM]:_

 _u still up? im home. later than i thought x_

 _[1:17AM]:_

 _not againnnn :(_

* * *

[7:39AM]:

Shit.

[7:40AM]:

.. **..**

[7:43AM]:

Don't know what else to say except I'm sorry. Xx

* * *

[4:39PM]:

Lemme make it up to you. Me, you, and a movie of your choice. Tonight. 7PM. Just like old times. It's about time for a Hellboy I & II rewatch. You in?

* * *

 _[8:04PM]:_

 _long day i had to cover for darian, sorry :( x_

 _[8:11PM]:_

 _how was yours? ?_

* * *

MON 31 AUGUST

[11:03AM]:

Hey. I miss you. Have a good day.

 _[1:45PM]:_

 _you too :-)_

* * *

THURS 3 SEPTEMBER

[9:47AM]:

Morning. :-)

[9:51AM]:

How'd you sleep?

 _[9:58AM]:_

 _good_

[10:07AM]:

I'm off from work today, which makes me all yours.

[10:13AM]:

Are you still interested in that movie date? How's tonight sound? Like I said, it's your pick. Whatever you want.

 _[10:15AM]:_

 _cant_

[10:21AM]:

What, that's all I get?

[10:23AM]:

No hi, morning Clint, how'd you sleep? I slept well, thanks for asking. Oh, wait. You didn't. :p

 _[10:27AM]:_

 _hi, morning Clint, how'd you sleep?_

[10:33AM]:

C'mon. Don't be like that. I know you're disappointed that I fell asleep, but I can't help that I'm just super old now. I need at least 3 naps per day or I'll get grouchy. You knew that when we got together. I like naps.

[10:36AM]:

But I guess I like you more, so I'll cut back on the naps. Is that better? You got me all day. We can do FaceTime or whatever. I really wanna hear all about your week.

 _[10:44AM]:_

 _you are in a good mood today  
_

[10:49AM]:

Guess so. :-)

[10:53AM]:

You still there?

 _[10:55AM]:_

 _yes,, why what is it?_

[10:59AM]:

I just wanted to talk, that's all. I miss it. And you.

 _[11:03AM]:_

 _well maybe later_

 _[11:05AM]:_

 _i have things i need to do today. bye_

[11:09AM]:

Sure. I'll be around if you need anything.

* * *

To: clintfbarton  
Subject: Clint, you have 7 new notifications.  
From: fb-info  
Date: Thurs, 3 September 1:51PM

3 messages  
7 new notifications  
2 friend requests

 **[Open Facebook]**

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

Something's wrong.

 **Steve Rogers:**

with u? duh

 **Clint Barton:**

Go away, Bucky. I wanna talk to Steve.

The adults need to have an adult conversation.

 **Steve Rogers:**

im an adult

 **Clint Barton:**

No you're not.

 **Steve Rogers:**

yes i am

 **Clint Barton:**

Says the guy that named his turtle "Shelly"

 **Steve Rogers:**

says u. the guy that named his 1eyd dog "lucky"

 **Clint Barton:**

It's supposed to be ironic.

Whatever, man. Shut up.

 **Steve Rogers:**

ur mad u didnt think of shelly first

 **Clint Barton:**

No I'm not.

 **Steve Rogers:**

u so r

 **Clint Barton:**

Learn how to spell. Stop dropping off letters.

 **Steve Rogers:**

make me

 **Clint Barton:**

Seriously, man, where's Steve? The adults need to talk.

 **Steve Rogers:**

not gonna happen

 **Clint Barton:**

Why not?

You know what, don't even answer that. Tell him to call me later. Bye, idiot. I actually hate you.

 **Steve Rogers:**

love u too

* * *

[10:15PM]:

You wanna tell me what got into you today?

 _[10:21PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[10:23PM]:_

 _im surprised you are still awake_

[10:27PM]:

Cause I'm old? ha ha. That's original.

[10:29PM]:

But seriously, that's the reply you're going with? I had a lot of coffee. So yeah, I'm still awake. Well I was last time I checked anyway.

[10:55PM]:

We're really not gonna talk about this?

 _[11:04PM]:_

 _i had a bad day_

[11:06PM]:

Oh. Is this something I should be worried about?

 _[11:08PM]:_

 _no it just wasnt a very good day_

[11:15PM];

What happened? Are you ok?

 _[11:19PM]:_

 _im tired ok i dont want to do this now_

[11:23PM]:

I know this is hard on you, but don't push me away. Get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow. I always wanna hear about your day, good and bad.

* * *

FRI 4 SEPTEMBER

The small avatar next to Pietro's name is different, Clint realizes. He stares at the screen for a very long moment, a pang of nostalgia twisting up his stomach.

 _Pietro M calling..._

Instead of Wanda and Pietro's faces squished together in the picture, it's an image of a larger group: faces that Clint doesn't recognize, all gathered around a table, arms slung over shoulders and curled around waists. Pietro's wedged in between Wanda and an unfairly tall, attractive, dark-haired man.

Clint hits accept, clicking on: _answer with video._

Five seconds roll by, before the Skype call connects. The screen is grainy, at first. Clint squints, but can't make out any of Pietro's features clearly. A blur of white and silver. Clint's out on the porch, sitting down on the middle step, a laptop balanced precariously on his knees and a can of Red Bull to his left.

 _"You left me waiting for so long,"_ Pietro says.

He sounds amused (tentative, even. After all, things have been weird) but not angry. A smile tugs at the corners of Clint's mouth. There's a fondness, to Pietro's words, that warms him up from the inside, erasing the tension from the previous night from Clint's mind.

The image freezes, once, twice. But his voice still carries over clearly, despite the stuttering on-screen.

 _"Old man?"_

"Yeah? Yeah, I'm here."

 _"Good."_ he says. _"I thought you might not answer at all."_

For a moment, when Clint closes his eyes, it nearly feels like Pietro is there with him. He can picture it now: Pietro, in an ugly old flannel, with a mug of steaming coffee in his hands. That first call had been a game-changer, now that Clint really thinks about it, turning those memories over and over in his mind. He remembers that flutter of nerves, bubbling up in his chest, as their eyes met.

Pietro, with damp hair and a sly grin, and that wet towel draped over his bare shoulders. Clint had known then, in some strange way, that this would be different.

He remembers the freckles on Pietro's shoulders.

And the way he fidgeted with his hands, nervous and yet still radiating confidence. That awful scar, old and faded, twisting all up his back. His bright, toothy smile, and how his eyes seemed to sparkle whenever he laughed. Clint's missed that. The sound of his laughter.

"Me?" Clint leans back and tries to recall the exact words he'd used. "Come on, kid. I'd never leave you waiting. Not for very long, anyway."

 _"I've missed your face."_

"You can see me?"

 _"It keeps cutting out, but, at moments, yes."_

Clint barely gets a glimpse of Pietro, before his tiny little world on the laptop screen stutters to a halt. It's stuck on his face. Wherever he is, he looks so happy. Dressed in a black V-neck, with a dark green beanie pulled down over his ears, Pietro looks good. Young. Way better than Clint feels on the inside. Better than he looks on the outside, too. It sparks up something warm inside of Clint. Slowly, he brings a hand to the screen and traces the outline of Pietro's shape, tries to remember what his skin feels like to touch, and what his laugh sounds like (in person, not through a call, across a fractured screen). Clint drops his hand away.

The screen unfreezes.

 _"You look—"_

"Tired? I only got four hours last night."

 _"I don't know. Different, maybe."_

"Me?" Clint frowns.

 _"Yes, you. Who else?"_

"Good different or bad different?"

Pietro considers that. _"Just different. So, old man, why are you only getting four hours sleep? Hm?"_

"The perks of being thirty-five, I guess."

 _"Drinking too much coffee?"_

"Probably."

 _"You miss me?"_

"Oh, yeah." Clint nods. "You bet. All the time, kid."

 _"Maybe that is also why."_

"Why I can't sleep? Maybe. You look good."

It hasn't exactly been easy, Clint has to admit (even if it's just to himself). Missed calls and misunderstandings. He dreams about it, sometimes. He dreams about jumping on the next flight to Washington and living with Pietro in some tiny shoebox apartment, or somewhere with lots of land and huge windows. But in reality, he wakes alone.

"So," Clint hums, after a very generous sip of his energy drink. "We're gonna have to talk about it eventually."

 _"About what?"_

"Whatever that was yesterday."

 _"Yesterday?"_

"Mhm."

 _"What was yesterday? Did something happen?"_

"That's cute. Let's talk."

Pietro wrinkles his nose, shaking his head at Clint as if to say _nice try._ He pulls the beanie off his head, then runs a hand back through his pale hair, smoothing down all the unruly flicks and curls. There's a brown takeaway coffee cup in Pietro's hands that he drinks from languidly. Clint narrows his eyes at the name scrawled across the side when Pietro sets it back down again.

 _"I don't want to."_

"Yeah, I know. But that means we probably should."

 _"Fine, just not right now."_

"Then when?

 _"I want five more minutes of this."_ he says, waving a hand between himself and the laptop. _"Of us, just talking."_

"Alright. What do you wanna talk about, Peter?"

A small frown darts across Pietro's face. He even opens his mouth to protest, before realization sinks in. Then an almost coy smile replaces the frown, and Pietro turns the cup over in his hands, runs his thumb over the lid before taking a sip.

 _"Oh. This is because of the—well, there is this barista and he always gets my name wrong."_ Pietro explains. His accent is far thicker than Clint remembers. Maybe it's just Clint's foggy, unreliable memories. Or, maybe it's the fact that they mostly text now, rarely FaceTime, hardly talk on the phone unless it's been that kind of week. _"But I think he is just doing it to be cute now."_

"I've missed this."

 _"Me too."_

"We gotta do it more. I can't stand not talking to you."

 _"Then come here."_ Pietro pleads. _"Come be with me. We will talk all the time."_

"I'll visit, but I can't _—_ "

 _"You won't stay, will you?"_

Clint's silence is enough of an answer. The call cuts out before he can even muster up a response.

* * *

[12:39PM]:

You wanted to give it a shot, so that's what I'm doing. My cards have always been on the table. I'm not moving. We both decided to give this long-distance thing a go.

[12:44PM]:

.. **..**

[12:47PM]:

What's on your mind? And I know it's not this missed call thing, because we've been missing each other's calls all week. It happens.

 _[12:55PM]:_

 _i dont know_

[1:03PM]:

You don't know what's on your mind?

[1:07PM]:

I don't know what you want from me right now. You want me to say I'm sorry? Because I am. I'm sorry I couldn't go with you. You gotta know it's not easy on me either.

[1:15PM]:

Just talk to me. Tell me this is still something you want.

 _[1:19PM]:_

 _not now. i have to go._

[1:22PM]:

Seriously?

* * *

SUN 13 SEPTEMBER

 **Steve Rogers:**

I thought things were getting better? Bucky had to drive you home again last night.

 **Clint Barton:**

They were. For a minute there.

 **Steve Rogers:**

What happened?

 **Clint Barton:**

He won't say it, but I can tell that he's starting to feel the strain of this whole thing. Not gonna lie, man, it's harder than I thought it'd be. And he's quieter now than he ever was before. Thinks I'm avoiding him.

Mind telling Bucky thanks? He's not a complete asshole, sometimes. But don't tell him I said that, or he'll think I'm growing soft on him.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Are you?

 **Clint Barton:**

What, warming up to Bucky? No way.

Not gonna happen.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Not what I was asking, Clint, and you know it. But nice try at changing the subject. Wouldn't it be easier if you went to Pietro and told him how you felt? Get it sorted out, one way or the other. And it's not that I don't want to hear any of this, Clint, because I do. We're friends.

But he's more than your friend.

Work it out or don't. Just make the choice. Even if it feels like it's the wrong one, you have to call this before it ends up being something that hurts you both even more.

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't worry about me, alright?

I'll get a cab home from now on.

* * *

[5:42PM]:

I need to ask you something.

[5:45PM]:

And I need you to not be a dick about it, just this once. I need to know why it didn't work.

 **[6:07PM]:**

 **Hm. You might want to be a little more specific.**

[6:11PM]:

You and me, Tony. Why'd it fail? Was it me? Am I allergic to good relationships? Do I ruin them on purpose just to make myself miserable?

 **[6:17PM]:**

 **I think we both know the answer to that.**

[6:20PM]:

Yeah I know.

[6:21PM]:

Sort of.

 **[6:26PM]:**

 **Not your fault, Barton. Not this time.  
**

 **[6:32PM]:**

.. **..**

 **[6:32PM]:**

 **So, you and Peeta.  
**

[6:40PM]:

You know that's not his name.

 **[6:45PM]:**

 **Oh, I know. I just don't care. Like not at all.  
**

 **[6:47PM]:**

 **What happened?**

[6:50PM]:

You don't give a shit about that.

 **[6:53PM]:**

 **Not really. But I thought you could use a drink. Like old times? Come on, it'll be fun.**

[7:05PM]:

Really, Tony?

 **[7:17PM]:**

 **Just one teeny tiny drink. No strings attached.**

[7:20PM]:

Fine but you're buying.

 **[7:26PM]:**

 **Wouldn't have it any other way. Pick you up at 8.**

* * *

[10:02PM]: INCOMING CALL: PIETRO

* * *

MON 14 SEPTEMBER

[9:46AM]:

So, you still not talking to me?

[9:49AM]:

That's cool, I get it.

[9:50AM]:

Most of the time I don't even like me.

 _[10:04AM]:_

 _i dont not like you_

[10:07AM]:

Then why the radio silence?

 _[10:11AM]:_

 _i needed time_

[10:17AM]:

For what?

[10:20AM]:

C'mon, kid. I thought things were good with us. It felt like we were finally just starting to get back on track. What's changed?

 _[10:23AM]:_

 _vision is moving to dc_

[10:26AM]:

.. **..**

[10:29AM]:

Oh. That's a pretty big change. Good for him.

 _[10:33AM]:_

 _to be with wanda. to live here with us.  
_

[10:37AM]:

That's why you were so upset with me?

 _[10:40AM]:_

 _i called you last night to talk_

[10:44AM]:

About this? Us?

[10:46AM]:

I was out last night. Must've missed your call.

 _[10:49AM]:_

 _out with friends? ?_

[10:51AM]:

Yeah. It wasn't a big thing. Now, are we gonna talk about your thing? Not talking to you is killing me.

 _[10:54AM]:_

 _why did tony answer your phone_

[11:03AM]:

What?

[11:06AM]:

Listen, I had no idea he did that. But it's not what you're thinking. I didn't even know you called.

 _[11:09AM]:_

 _what am i thinking?_

[11:14AM]:

I don't know, but we went for drinks. That's it.

 _[11:19AM]:_

 _thats it?_

[11:24AM]:

You gotta be kidding me right now.

 _[11:28AM]:_

 _i trust you clint but i dont like him_

[11:31AM]:

I'm really feeling an overwhelming sense of trust here.

 _[11:35AM]:_

 _clint_

[11:47AM]:

You wanna be mad? Go for it. Let me know when you get over whatever this is, so things can go back to normal.

 _[11:50AM]:_

 _i dont know if they can_

[11:52AM]:

After everything, you're really saying that?

 _[11:55AM]:_

 _im saying that this feels different now_

 _[11:57AM]:_

 _that i dont know how or why but it is_

 _[11:58AM]:_

 _knowing that vision will move all this way for wanda hurts because it reminds me of what you wont do for me_

[12:03PM]:

You don't get to use that against me.

[12:05PM]:

Maybe if I had time to get used to the idea. Or maybe if I knew about it when we first met, things would've worked out differently. You could've told me from the start.

 _[12:09PM]:_

 _you would be here now if i had?_

[12:13PM]:

It's not that simple.

 _[12:17PM]:_

 _perhaps it should be  
_

* * *

That night, Clint drives to that shitty little dive bar, settles in at that very same booth, orders drink after drink after drink, and he stays there for hours.

It's busier than it had been on that slow afternoon he and Pietro dropped by; a day full of quiet revelations and too many drinks, and slow dancing, and Pietro making eyes at him from across the table, his leg brushing up against the outside of Clint's, his eyes so warm and blue.

He dials before he realizes what he's really doing. And, of course, the call goes straight to voicemail. Clint leaves a message, even though he probably shouldn't. The booze is getting to him, making him nostalgic.

"It's me. I'm not—I don't know why I'm calling." he admits, an obvious slur to his words. "I missed you. Maybe that's it. Um. I thought maybe I'd visit you sometime. Soon."

Clint slowly drags a finger around the neck of his bottle, then picks it up off the liquor-sticky table and brings it to his lips.

"Or, if you wanted, you could come home for a few days."

The word is out of his mouth too quickly.

 _Home._

"I don't know why I said that."

Sighing, Clint takes a long swig of beer, finishes the rest of it easily. He waves down the waitress for another. The music pouring out of the jukebox is lively and upbeat, but Clint can still see the two of them when he glances over at the tiny, and mostly deserted, dance floor. He can see them clearly, as if it were more than just a memory: his arms are curled tight around Pietro's waist, holding him close. They sway together happily, lost in their own world.

Clint's voice is shakier, when he next speaks, and cracks a little when he says, "I'm trying. You gotta believe that. It isn't easy, but I'm—just call me back. Bye."

Two beers and one hour later, Pietro texts back, and Clint types out a sluggish reply. The words blur and scramble together before his eyes.

 _[11:14PM]:_

 _im here are you ok? i didnt play the voicemail yet_

[11:17PM]:

dont play it yet

[11:19PM]:

can we talk first? real quick

* * *

In hindsight, drunk-dialling Pietro after five beers (plus a gin and tonic) seemed like a much better idea when Clint was, well, drunk. Very, very drunk.

Sobriety has a way of setting things apart. And now, with what feels like a tiny marching band playing on his skull, it doesn't really seem like the best idea. Sobriety brings clarity. Clint lazes around in bed for most of the morning, delaying the inevitable. Eventually, he sits up and he pats around blindly for his iPhone, finding it underneath a pair of discarded jeans hanging over the edge of the bed. He pulls up his and Pietro's conversation history and scrolls through their most recent messages, dismissing the low battery alert that keeps popping up.

[10:18PM]:

you around piet ?

[10:21PM]:

how long are we not tlaking for now

 _[11:14PM]:_

 _im here are you ok? i didnt play the voicemail yet_

[11:17PM]:

dont play it yet

[11:19PM]:

can we talk first? real quick

 _[11:24PM]:_

 _give me 5 then ill call_

 _[12:28PM]:_

 _text me in the morning so i know you are ok x_

And in that one hour gap, Clint realizes, is the duration of their phone call. He doesn't remember anything about it, only faint, slurred words, and a voice that sounds like his own. But it's not enough to make sense of. He's tempted to throw his phone away and dive back under the covers, but instead he types up a message, hoping that he didn't say anything too stupid during that one hour call.

[9:52AM]:

Not dead. Hi.

 _[10:01AM]:_

 _thank you for letting me know_

[10:07AM]:

It's the least I can do, right?

 _[10:09AM]:_

 _right. not feeling so great today are you?  
_

[10:14AM]:

How'd you guess?

 _[10:21AM]:_

 _well you had a lot to drink so it isnt very hard to guess. are you ok?_

[10:25AM]:

I'll probably live.

[10:27AM]:

So. Last night.

 _[10:35AM]:_

 _you dont remember anything do you? ?_

[10:38AM]:

Not really. Wanna tell me what happened?

 _[10:42AM]:_

 _i would but i have a class soon. later?  
_

[10:55AM]:

Yeah, sure.

[10:58AM]:

Wait, for what?

 _[11:04AM]:_

 _bikram_

[11:07AM]:

That's yoga right?

 _[11:12AM]:_

 _yes it is_

[11:15AM]:

Cool. Have fun.

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _we'll talk after?_

[11:24AM]:

You bet.

* * *

 _[3:01PM]:_

 _sorry it took so long i had to grab things for dinner_

 _[3:05PM]:_

 _are you still there?_

[3:23PM]:

I'm here. Don't worry about it.

 _[3:29PM]:_

 _good. so last night_

[3:32PM]:

Not really clear to me. Yet. Mind helping out?

[3:37PM]:

Look, you gotta believe that it was only drinks with Tony. I'd never do that to you. Or to anyone. It's a shitty thing to do. I'm not that guy.

 _[3:40PM]:_

 _i believe you clint_

[3:46PM]:

Thank you.

[3:47PM]:

Didn't say anything too stupid last night, did I?

 _[3:51PM]:_

 _it wasnt stupid no_

[3:53PM]:

Then what'd I say?

[3:57PM]:

C'mon, babe. The suspense is killing me.

 _[4:01PM]:_

 _you were very upset about this_

[4:04PM]:

About us?

 _[4:08PM]:_

 _yes but that doesnt matter right now_

 _[4:10PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[4:12PM]:_

 _first there is something i have to tell you_

[4:16PM]:

Sounds serious. Are you breaking up with me? :P

 _[4:20PM]:_

 _dont be mad_

[4:23PM]:

You ruined my sweater, didn't you?

 _[4:24PM]:_

 _darian kissed me_

[4:26PM]:

.. **..**

[4:30PM]:

What, that guy from work?

[4:33PM]:

Does he know you're with someone?

 _[4:38PM]:_

 _everyone knows  
_

[4:40PM]:

And he still tried to kiss you

 _[4:43PM]:_

 _yes_

 _[4:48PM]:_

 _but i didnt kiss him back_

[4:51PM]:

Did you want to?

 _[4:53PM]:_

 _hes not you_

[5:01PM]:

Yeah that doesn't really answer it.

 _[5:04PM]:_

 _no clint i dont want to_

[5:08PM]:

When did it happen?

 _[5:12PM]:_

 _last week_

[5:15PM]:

I just remembered I have this thing. Talk later.

 _[5:16PM]:_

 _no dont go clint_

 _[5:18PM]:_

 _clint?_

 _[5:19PM]:_

 _im sorry_

* * *

 _[7:34PM]:_

 _hello ?_

 _[7:39PM]:_

 _clint please answer_

 _[7:52PM]:_

 _we should talk_

* * *

 _[9:18PM]:_

 _? ? ?  
_

* * *

 **A/N:** Things are kind of winding down for this fic, which makes me sad. I wanted to take a quick moment before that happens and just say thanks for all the love and awesomeness! You guys have made this whole thing so enjoyable. xo


	38. Chapter 38

Clint | _Pietro_ | **Wanda**

* * *

TUES 15 SEPTEMBER

[3:47PM]: MISSED CALL: PIETRO

(2) New Voicemail Messages

 _[1:25PM]:_

 _please call me back_

* * *

FRI 18 SEPTEMBER

 _[9:03AM]:_

 _i know you are still upset with me and im not asking you to forgive me. but i want you to know that i never meant for it to happen_

 _[9:07AM]:_

 _im sorry for all of it_

 _[9:10AM]:_

 _can we please talk? there are things i need to say_

DRAFT [10:39AM]:

I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to talk to me if something like this happens. Don't hide it.

DRAFT [10:41AM]:

All you gotta do is talk to me

 _[11:03AM]:_

 _i never meant to hurt u_

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

I need some advice. And none of that follow your heart crap, but real advice. The kind of thing you'd tell yourself if you ever somehow got into this situation.

Which I doubt, because you're Steve. You've always had your life together.

I can't imagine you not having your shit sorted.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Despite what you think, I haven't always had everything together. But sure, how can I help?

 **Clint Barton:**

Someone else kissed him.

 **Steve Rogers:**

You want me to come around?

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm ok. You don't need to do that.

 **Steve Rogers:**

What happened?

 **Clint Barton:**

It was some guy from his work. He said he didn't want it to happen. But he still kept it a secret.

Makes me wonder, you know.

Was he scared of me?

I don't want him to be afraid of telling me stuff

 **Steve Rogers:**

You don't believe him?

 **Clint Barton:**

Why else tell me about it? If he didn't want me to know, then he could've kept it a secret. I might've never found out about it.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Now that you know, what will you do?

 **Clint Barton:**

That's kinda what I was hoping you'd help me with?

 **Steve Rogers:**

I can't tell you what to do next, but I can lend an ear. This has to be your call.

Do you trust him?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah. Of course I do.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Give yourself some time, then talk to him. Hear what he's got to say. In the end, you still have to do what's best for you. You got every right to be feeling the way you are. Be mad. Don't be mad. Be whatever you have to be.

Does that help?

 **Clint Barton:**

A little. Guess I'd have to figure out how I'm feeling first. Don't know if I'm mad. If I'm hurt. Don't know what I am right now.

 **Steve Rogers:**

It really comes down to whether or not this is something you still want to make work. Once you make that call, it's easy to figure the rest out. You'll know what to do.

 **Clint Barton:**

Sounds neat but I dunno

Thanks though man

* * *

[4:15PM]:

I just need a little time. Then we'll talk.

 _[4:19PM]:_

 _..._

 _[4:21PM]:_

 _take as much as u need x_

* * *

SUN 20 SEPTEMBER

 _Search your contacts..._

Everything is a blur of green dots and fuzzy names, and Clint can't make sense of it. He flops down onto the bed, phone inches above his face, and blinks tiredly up at the screen. This is the problem with napping in the middle of the day, he thinks. It throws the rest of the afternoon out of whack. It makes him feel hazy and groggy, and that's just not how naps are supposed to work. He's supposed to feel less tired afterwards, and _better,_ not worse.

Slowly, he scrolls down the list of names, careful not to cancel the Messenger app on accident.

Nobody has Scott Lang's number. Well, Sam might, but he's not responding to any texts. Clint keeps on scrolling. The tiny dot next to Pietro's name is bright green: online. He's right there, only a quick message away. It wouldn't take any effort at all to reach out, talk it through, bridge the gap that's been growing between them.

He's right there.

Clint just doesn't know what to say.

Steve Rogers (active: 54m ago)  
Peter Quill (active: 11h ago)  
Natasha Romanoff (active: 3h ago)  
Tony Stark (active: 2m ago)  
Wanda Maximoff (active: 1d ago)  
Darcy Lewis (active: 25m ago)  
James Rhodes (active: 9m ago)  
Sam Wilson (active: 4d ago)

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey man. Any chance you're free this weekend?

* * *

[5:21PM]:

I can't make tonight. Ring me in five and I'll explain.

* * *

TUES 22 SEPTEMBER

 **Scott Lang:**

Hey, you!

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey Scott

 **Scott Lang:**

What's up man?

 **Clint Barton:**

I've got a job I thought you might be interested in. From what I remember, you were a pro with all that electrical stuff. You'd get paid, of course. I tried my hand at it but I'm not any good. Watched a couple YouTube tutorials so I thought I'd be fine. I'm not.

Is that something you'd be interested in?

 **Scott Lang:**

Thanks for thinking of me! When is it?

 **Clint Barton:**

Just a couple hours this Saturday

 **Scott Lang:**

Oh man, I definitely need the cash. Wish I could but this is my weekend with Cassie. I can't cancel on her. But if anything else comes up, let me know. I'm your guy for the job. I wouldn't want you getting zapped or anything like that. Not a good feeling, trust me!

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah sure. I'll let you know.

 **Scott Lang:**

Thanks!

 **Clint Barton:**

You guys got anything special planned?

 **Scott Lang:**

Just a little father daughter bonding time. Lots of candy and sugar. Whatever she wants. I'm trying to get her into Star Wars, but she's not into classics. Lately it's all about the thrillers. Like that newest Toy Story movie. Have you seen it? Things get real intense, real fast.

I think there's a petting zoo on actually, so we might go check that out. Cassie loves goats. I don't know why, but they're her favorite. Something about the ears maybe. Or their chins.

She even named the teddy I got her last Christmas "Mr Goat" LOL aren't kids the best?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh yeah, kids are great

 **Scott Lang:**

Got any rugrats of your own?

 **Clint Barton:**

Nope it's just me. And my dog, which is cool. Because dogs are great. He's cool.

 **Scott Lang:**

I already knew that. Don't know why I asked.

Sorry.

There's still time, right? I mean you're not that old. Go out and get a rugrat. Not like take one, don't do that. But you could go make a kid. Or adopt one. You and Pete would be awesome parents. He's a funny guy. I like him.

Say hi from me!

 **Clint Barton:**

Pete?

 **Scott Lang:**

Yeah, your boyfriend? Peter?

 **Clint Barton:**

Pietro. You were close.

 **Scott Lang:**

My bad! I'm terrible with names

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't even know why we're talking about kids right now when we don't know each other.

 **Scott Lang:**

Aw I'm a little hurt. We totally know each other.

Your name's Clint. I know when your birthday is. You live on a farm. You're friends with a lot of my friends. You're a builder guy. See? I know stuff. We know each other

 **Clint Barton:**

I guess

 **Scott Lang:**

Hi, Clint. I'm Scott. 35. Divorced. Used to work at Baskin-Robbins. Likes: long walks to the refrigerator. Dislikes: anchovies on pizza. I'm a Pisces and father of 1. That's me in a nutshell. We totally know each other.

 **Clint Barton:**

Alright, I get it. Nice to meet you, Scott. Pisces and father of 1. I'm Clint. I have a dog.

 **Scott Lang:**

That's the spirit! Clint, father of Pup.

What's your dogs name?

 **Clint Barton:**

Lucky

 **Scott Lang:**

I dig it.

Hey I've got an idea. Postpone that job of yours til next Saturday and I'll work it with you. I have Cassie every second weekend, until things get sorted. I'll even write it in on the calendar.

 **Clint Barton:**

Ok, but why would I do that?

I really need this job done

 **Scott Lang:**

I thought that was obvious? Skip the job and come to the petting zoo with us. I'm not taking no for an answer.

 **Clint Barton:**

You're serious?

 **Scott Lang:**

I am nothing if not a very serious man. The most serious man you'll ever meet. Maybe. But yeah, totally serious.

Come with us to the zoo. It'll be fun.

 **Clint Barton:**

When is it?

 **Scott Lang:**

1PM, Saturday

 **Clint Barton:**

I'll be there

 **Scott Lang:**

Yes! Awesome. You won't regret it. :)

* * *

 _Search your contacts..._

Pietro Maximoff (active: 5m ago)

* * *

[6:10PM]:

I don't know how it happened, but I'm going to a petting zoo with Scott Lang and his daughter Cassie. I know. It sounds just as weird to me.

[6:13PM]:

Scott's agreed to work with me on the house, so maybe I can finally finish this place. That'd be something, huh? I just thought I'd say hi and check in. Let you know I'm not dead. Well only on the inside. I'll call you later, Nat. Sorry bout ditching you the other night. x

* * *

THURS 24 SEPTEMBER

 _[2:11AM]:_

 _i dont want to push you further away but i would like to talk about this eventually_

 _[2:14AM]:_

 _call me sometime?  
_

* * *

 **[1:54PM]:**

 **Hi Clint, how are you?**

[2:30PM]:

If you're here to play messenger, kid, just don't. I've had a really shitty day and I don't want to get into this with you right now. Or ever. Things between me and your brother are that way for a reason. It's between us.

 **[2:35PM]:**

 **My brother is unhappy, so he told me everything. I think I am already involved in this, even if I don't wish to be.**

[2:39PM]:

I just need a little time. That's all. I'm not asking for too much, am I? Just some time.

 **[2:43PM]:**

 **I'm not here to play a messenger on his behalf.**

[2:48PM]:

Then what do you want?

 **[2:52PM]:**

 **To talk, if we could.**

[3:04PM]:

So let's talk. How's D.C treating you?

 **[3:14PM]:**

 **It is very different from what I expected, and the hours can be long, but I am grateful for the opportunity.**

[3:18PM]:

Pietro told me it was a fashion thing.

[3:20PM]:

You made his curtains, right? In the old apartment. They were pretty cool. Saw all that other stuff around your old place too. Are you enjoying the internship? I hear those things can be kinda rough

 **[3:31PM]:**

 **Mostly I am fetching coffee, running his errands, taking care of the reception duties. But it will take me where I want to go.**

[3:37PM]:

That's a good way of looking at it.

 **[3:41PM]:**

 **How are you?**

[3:49PM]:

Awesome. Just like I always am.

 **[3:53PM]:**

 **Things have been difficult. I would understand if you were unhappy about it all.**

[3:58PM]:

Not really the word I'd use

 **[4:03PM]:**

 **No? Then what word would you use?**

[4:15PM]:

I don't know. Tired, maybe?

 **[4:19PM]:**

 **Of?**

[4:23PM]:

Of feeling like the bad guy. I'm doing the best that I can to keep this thing with your brother steady. Right now, he's hurting me. Every single time he makes me feel like the bad guy for not going with him, it hurts. This whole thing sucks.

[4:25PM]:

And I thought we weren't gonna talk about it

 **[4:30PM]:**

 **My brother is many things. He is kind and funny, but he is still growing. I think this relationship is something he fears losing.**

[4:35PM]:

I'm afraid of the same thing. Trust me, I am. I don't want to lose it. But he's trying to force my hand on something we already talked about. We talked and he was fine with me staying behind. Then he suddenly wasn't and I don't know what changed, if it was me or him, but it's different now.

 **[4:39PM]:**

 **I understand. And I'm sorry.**

[4:44PM]:

Really?

 **[4:52PM]:**

 **Yes, really. You have been so kind to us, Clint, and you have taken great care of my brother. I won't ask you to make any rash decisions, and Pietro shouldn't either.**

 **[4:55PM]:**

 **Perhaps I can speak with him, if you like? Pietro can be stubborn.**

[4:59PM]:

I appreciate the offer, but it's gotta come from me. This isn't yours to fix, Wanda. You got enough of your own life to figure out.

 **[5:04PM]:**

 **You should know that no matter what happens, you will still be family. To the both of us.**

[5:06PM]:

Thanks. I think I really needed to hear that.

[5:14PM]:

I gotta go. Karaoke for Darcy's birthday. Enjoy DC and be safe. Keep that brother of yours out of trouble.

 **[5:18PM]:**

 **Be good. XO**

[5:22PM]:

I always try. X

* * *

 _[8:39PM]:_

 _guess what i found earlier when i was unpacking some of my things? ? the bracelet. if you want i can send it to you_

[9:15PM]:

Oh. That old thing. I wondered where that got to.

 _[9:48PM]:_

 _do you want me to send it? i can_

[10:04PM]:

Why don't you hang onto it for a little while? Keep it safe for me.

 _[10:07PM]:_

 _i can do that_

* * *

SAT 26 SEPTEMBER

 **Scott Lang:**

Ey you're still good to come along, right? I think it would break Cassie's little heart if you didn't show. No pressure though. Except maybe just a little. Cassie's been looking forward to meeting you ever since I mentioned it. Just kidding. No pressure.

Actually I'm not kidding

I did mention you and she's pretty excited

 **Clint Barton:**

Haha. No pressure at all, right?

 **Scott Lang:**

Right. None whatsoever.

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't worry, I'm still good to go.

 **Scott Lang:**

Glad to hear it! Also dude, call me Scott.

 **Clint Barton:**

Alright, Scott. I'll see you soon?

 **Scott Lang:**

ETA 30 mins. First stop: build-a-bear.

You like bears, right? I hear that Mr. Goat is looking for a friend.

 **Clint Barton:**

Makes sense. We'll build him a great friend.

 **Scott Lang:**

You two are going to get along fine, like peas in a pod. Or something like that. I'll see you soon!

* * *

 _[1:09PM]:_

 _do you think we could talk soon? maybe today_

* * *

[6:23PM]:

Sorry. Wasn't home and my phone died.

[6:24PM]:

Yeah, we can talk. What's on your mind?

 _[6:39PM]:_

 _us_

[6:43PM]:

I don't even care. You know that, don't you?

[6:45PM]:

.. **..**

[6:51PM]:

So he kissed you. It's not a big deal. Unless you wanted to kiss him back, then we don't have a problem. I trust you. Yeah I wanna punch the guy for kissing somebody who didn't want it, but I don't care about him.

[6:52PM]:

No way am I gonna punish you for something you didn't even want. That wouldn't be fair.

 _[7:04PM]:_

 _what do you care about then_

[7:10PM]:

You. And if you're happy.

 _[7:18PM]:_

 _i am_

[7:22PM]:

But not like before, right? Nothing's like it was before and I wanna go back to that.

 _[7:25PM]:_

 _my shift starts in 5. can we talk after?_

DRAFT [7:31PM]:

You didn't answer, if you're happy like you were before?.

[7:33PM]:

Yeah I'll be around

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

Today was actually pretty awesome. Thanks.

 **Scott Lang:**

Hey, no problem! Was super fun. :)

* * *

[7:53PM]:

I'm not Vision. You can't expect me to be like him.

* * *

 _[10:44PM]:_

 _hi im here on break_

 _[10:46PM]:_

 _i dont want you to be like him_

[10:53PM]:

But you want me to make all the same decisions Vision makes. I'm not him and I'm never gonna be anything like him. When I leave this place, it's gotta be my own call. It has to be because I'm ready to go. Piet you asked me to leave everything behind and gave me a couple weeks to get used to the idea. I'm sorry I couldn't.

[10:55PM]:

Leave it all, on a whim.

[10:55PM]:

Bet everything on this.

 _[11:03PM]:_

 _would that really be so bad to take a risk on us_

[11:06PM]:

It's a huge risk. You know I love you. But if you can't see why I couldn't give everything up with only three weeks notice, then I don't know what happens next for us. You gotta know that I'm not doing any of this to hurt you. Of course I want us to be together. I miss you.

[11:07PM]:

I'm tired of feeling bad.

 _[11:09PM]:_

 _i have to go back_

* * *

SUN 27 SEPTEMBER

 _[1:13AM]:_

 _are you still awake_

[1:16AM]:

Barely. We can talk in the morning. Get some sleep. x

 _[1:42AM]:_

 _i made a mistake ok and im sorry_

* * *

[9:17AM]:

What does that mean? Are you hurt?

 _[10:49AM]:_

 _no i meant with us_

 _[10:51AM]:_

 _you arent the bad guy in this_

[10:58AM]:

No? It kinda feels like I am

 _[11:06AM]:_

 _is that because of me_

[11:18AM]:

Because of the things you say to me.

 _[11:24AM]:_

 _then i shouldnt have said them and i never will again_

[11:31AM]:

It's so easy to say that now. But tomorrow, or in a week, you might start feeling that same way again. You might get mad that I didn't follow you to Washington. That I'm not like vision. I gotta sort out my own life before I can commit to something like that. I don't wanna fight about it anymore.

 _[11:38AM]:_

 _i made a mess of this_

 _[11:40AM]:_

 _i should never have tried to make this decision for you_

 _[11:41AM]:_

 _do you think you will forgive me_

[11:55AM]:

You know I already have

 _[11:59AM]:_

 _what happens now_

[12:03PM]:

I don't know what happens. It's not like before, was it? Things were so much easier. I wanna go back to that.

 _[12:08PM]:_

 _it isnt like before_

 _[12:11PM]:_

 _that isn't always a bad thing_

[12:16PM]:

Not always good though.

 _[12:19PM]:_

 _not always no_

[12:33PM]:

Things changed, didn't they? Between us. The distance and all the arguments. It's not working and I don't know how to fix it. And I don't know what happens.

 _[12:38PM]:_

 _i dont want to fight_

[12:44PM]:

We don't have to do that. That's the last thing I want. You know how I feel about you, Pietro, and I want to take that chance on us. I want to risk it all. I just need a little time to get my head together first. That's all.

 _[12:53PM]:_

 _ok if you think this is for the best  
_

 _[12:59PM]:_

 _im sorry again for what has happened_

[1:04PM]:

Don't say sorry. We'll be ok.

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

We called it, Steve. Ended things. Finally made a choice even if it was the wrong one.

Guess I'll find out

 **Steve Rogers:**

hey sorry its bucky

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, Jesus. This is just great.

 **Steve Rogers:**

you want me to go

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm not in the mood for any of your shitty jokes. This is the exact opposite of what I need right now.

 **Steve Rogers:**

not here to make jokes

i swear

there will b no jokes

are you ok?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah, fine. I do have a question though.

For you.

 **Steve Rogers:**

yea sure whats up?

 **Clint Barton:**

Why are you always here, on Steve's account, whenever I message? Isn't he around? Doesn't he live there? Or does he not know how to log out

 **Steve Rogers:**

cmon man its steve

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah. You're right.

 **Steve Rogers:**

of course he doesnt know how to sign out

right now hes just in the shower

 **Clint Barton:**

Alright. Good to know.

 **Steve Rogers:**

you know you can talk to me

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm still waiting for that punchline.

 **Steve Rogers:**

the punchline is im a good friend

so shut up and tell me what happened

 **Clint Barton:**

I can do one or the other. Can't do both. Because if I shut up, then I can't tell you what happened. And if I tell you what happened, then I'm definitely not shutting up, am I? It's gotta be one or the other.

 **Steve Rogers:**

are you done being sarcastic

 **Clint Barton:**

Yes.

 **Steve Rogers:**

really?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, yeah.

Totally.

Completely.

I'm done for good.

I quit cold turkey.

Out of my system.

Done and dusted.

I'm signing off.

 **Steve Rogers:**

haha o fuck you

 **Clint Barton:**

How sweet.

 **Steve Rogers:**

tell me what happened

stop deflecting

 **Clint Barton:**

That's a big word for you.

Fine.

We broke up.

 **Steve Rogers:**

no way that's it

what else

 **Clint Barton:**

Maybe I got scared. Maybe I'm trying to convince myself that I called it off because I had to do it. But it felt like we needed to hit pause. I need time to figure my life out. He should be enjoying himself, not worrying about me.

Maybe we'll have another go at it in six months.

I don't know what happens next.

 **Steve Rogers:**

i get it man but im still sorry. he seemed like a good kid and you were even happy for awhile there

less grumpy

you think its over for good?

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't know. I hope not.

 **Steve Rogers:**

you alright?

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm fine

 **Steve Rogers:**

wanna go out tonight? ill buy

 **Clint Barton:**

Thanks, but I think I'm gonna stay in.

 **Steve Rogers:**

probably a good call

ok buddy we'll be here if you need us

 **Clint Barton:**

What

 **Steve Rogers:**

what what

 **Clint Barton:**

Nothing.

It's just you've never called me buddy before. Well not in a way that wasn't super patronizing. Or mean.

 **Steve Rogers:**

im trying out something new

 **Clint Barton:**

Something new? What, not being a dick? Oh, you're right. That is something new. Good for you, buddy.

* * *

[4:38PM]:

Things are over between me and Pietro. Just for now. I thought you should know, but I'm guessing you already do.

DRAFT [4:43PM]:

Even if it broke my damn heart, I had to call it.

 **[5:05PM]:**

 **Yes I know what happened.**

[5:09PM]:

Is he ok? He seemed ok

 **[5:11PM]:**

 **I don't think I can answer that right now, Clint.**

 **[5:14PM]:**

 **The things I said before, about you being family, that is always going to be true. You will still be our family. But right now my brother needs me.**

[5:21PM]:

Yeah of course. I get it.

 **[5:25PM]:**

 **Take care, Clint.**

DRAFT [5:34PM]:

It's not me I'm worried about

* * *

 **Steve Rogers:**

I heard what happened. How are you holding up?

* * *

TUES 29 SEPTEMBER

 **Clint Barton:**

hey I'm alright

Haven't moved off the couch all weekend

 **Steve Rogers:**

It's Tuesday, Clint.

 **Clint Barton:**

It is? Are you sure?

 **Steve Rogers:**

Very sure.

 **Clint Barton:**

Well shit

 **Steve Rogers:**

You should come around. I'll cook whatever you want for dinner, or we can do take-out and beers. Come over. I'll make up the guest room. I know how much he means to you, Clint. You shouldn't be alone.

 **Clint Barton:**

Tonight? I'm going to Scott's.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Scott who? Scott Lang?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yep. The one and only.

 **Steve Rogers:**

You do know he used to fall in with the wrong sorts of crowds, right? I like the guy, Clint. Just be smart.

 **Clint Barton:**

Thanks, mom, but I'm good. Scott's harmless. And I need as many friends as I can get right now. I'm sure you and Bucky are just about sick of me. I don't have many other people around.

Try admitting that to yourself

It's a harsh reality

But really, Scott's good. Everybody's got a past, Steve, which is something you of all people should know.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Yeah, I know.

We'll catch up later in the week?

 **Clint Barton:**

Aye, aye, Cap'n.

* * *

THURS 1 OCTOBER

DRAFT [10:31AM]:

I know you probably don't want to hear from me, and I swear I wasn't going to message you this soon, but it's your birthday in a few days so I guess I just wanted to check in. How are you?

* * *

FRI 2 OCTOBER

 **Clint Barton:**

Job starts at 11AM tomorrow. Don't be late.

I'll forward the address.

 **Scott Lang:**

Gotcha! See you then!

 **Clint Barton:**

How's sweet Cassie doing?

 **Scott Lang:**

Cassie's so great. I called her last night and all she could talk about was how much fun she had. Loved getting her face painted. A little butterfly. Man that was awesome of you. FYI, you'd make a cool tiger. Very cool.

 **Clint Barton:**

From what I remember, you gave me fifteen bucks and shoved me in that line. So that was all you, man. But it was fun. She's a good kid.

Tell her I said hi?

 **Scott Lang:**

Kinda weird you remember it like that? But I mean, sure, maybe I did give you a slight nudge in the right direction. I can't sit through those things. That paint always itches my nose.

And tell her yourself.

I've got her next weekend. You interested? Maybe not a petting zoo this time, but I'm sure we'll find something.

 **Clint Barton:**

I'm in.

* * *

MON 5 OCTOBER

[9:14AM]:

Happy Birthday, Wanda. You deserve everything good that's coming your way. Wish I could've been there to celebrate. Have a drink for me. x

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

On second thought, I won't be able to come around tonight. I'll make it up to you. Sorry?

 **Steve Rogers:**

Don't be like that, Clint. It'll be fun.

 **Clint Barton:**

Tony's going. Not fun for me.

 **Steve Rogers:**

He'll be there for an hour, if that.

 **Clint Barton:**

Think I'm coming down with the flu

 **Steve Rogers:**

No you're not

 **Clint Barton:**

I could be

Alright, fine. I'll be there. At least tell me Nat's coming, so we can suffer together.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Yes, she and Sam will be there.

And Pepper.

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh. Well that's better.

 **Steve Rogers:**

You should probably know something, before tonight.

 **Clint Barton:**

What, you hate Tony too?

 **Steve Rogers:**

I don't hate Tony. And neither do you.

You should know they're back together. With big news, apparently, that he wants to share tonight.

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh right. Good for them.

What's for dinner?

 **Steve Rogers:**

We're still working that out. Bucky wants Thai.

How do you feel about fondue?

 **Clint Barton:**

Hmm. Well I don't really have any strong feelings about cheese. Why? Is that dinner? Because I can just order a pizza. I know this great pizza joint. Let's do that instead it'd be so good.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Thanks, but we're good.

 **Clint Barton:**

No? It's pizza, Steve. Pizza.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Not happening.

 **Clint Barton:**

You're really ruining my Christmas, man.

 **Steve Rogers:**

It's October, Clint.

 **Clint Barton:**

Then we're having pizza at Christmas.

What time should I come by? Want me to bring anything? Not that I have anything to bring, but I thought I'd at least offer.

 **Steve Rogers:**

I think we're good, Clint, but thanks. 7:30 is fine. Do you want me to make up the spare bed? In case you want to have a few drinks. Unless you've got an early start in the morning.

 **Clint Barton:**

Think I'm getting too old for hangovers. Had too many of those lately. I think it's better if I'm not drinking right now, with all the other stuff going on.

So thanks, but I'm good.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Good call. Don't worry, I'll let Bucky know so he doesn't try to talk you into anything.

 **Clint Barton:**

Bless him, he'll still try.

* * *

[1:02PM]:

I'm probably the last person you want to hear from right now, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Enjoy it, Pietro. I remember what 26 felt like. This age is a good one. Have a drink or two for me. Be good.

 _[2:47PM]:_

 _thank you clint_

DRAFT [2:51PM]:

I got you something. Well I actually got it way back, right after we met that first time. And It's just been sitting in a box ever since. I never could figure out the right time to give it to you, so I think I might send it this week?

DRAFT [2:54PM]:

Miss you

[3:03PM]:

Have a good one x

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _clint?_

[3:20PM]:

Yeah?

 _[3:24PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[3:26PM]:_

 _nothing. thank you. xx_

* * *

FRI 9 OCTOBER

 **Scott Lang:**

Bad news. Cassie's got a bug and won't be staying over this weekend. Think I'm getting it too. :(

Raincheck?

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't stress, Scott. Get better.

* * *

To: clintfbarton  
Subject: Clint, you have 5 new notifications  
From: fb-info  
Date: Tues 13 October, 1:08PM

3 new messages  
1 group invite  
1 new friend request

 **[Open Facebook]**

* * *

15 OCTOBER at 2:12PM

You are now connected on messenger.

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey?

 **Vision:**

Hello, Clint. Are you well?

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh yeah. Fine. How are you?

 **Vision:**

Quite well, thank you.

 **Clint Barton:**

I heard you were moving to D.C.

When do you leave?

 **Vision:**

Two weeks, once I have sorted everything here.

 **Clint Barton:**

That's awesome. Best of luck.

 **Vision:**

Are you sure you're quite well, Clint?

I sent several text messages, but received no response. Have I perhaps done something to offend or upset you?

 **Clint Barton:**

No way man you're good. I just got lazy.

Needed time for myself. It wasn't anything personal.

Can I ask you something?

 **Vision:**

Is it medical?

 **Clint Barton:**

What?

Oh because you're a doctor. Right.

No, it's definitely not medical.

 **Vision:**

How might I be of assistance?

 **Clint Barton:**

Are they ok? How are they doing?

 **Vision:**

I mostly speak with Wanda, but yes, she is very well and appears to be thriving in Washington. Pietro, however, I know little of. We do not speak as often.

 **Clint Barton:**

You know what happened?

 **Vision:**

I am sorry, Clint. Is there no hope of reconciliation?

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't know

 **Vision:**

Have the two of you spoken since?

 **Clint Barton:**

Not really.

I mean, what's there even left to say? I ended things. He doesn't want a thing to do with me. I thought I was doing the right thing and I'm still trying to believe that.

 **Vision:**

Understood.

Are you keeping occupied? I imagine that might help.

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah I'm working a lot. Reading books. I got rid of the booze. Think I was drinking too much.

 **Vision:**

Then something good has come of this?

 **Clint Barton:**

I never thought of it like that

* * *

[3:09PM]:

How was your birthday?

 _[3:15PM]:_

 _we went for drinks n i ate lots of cake_

 _[3:19PM]:_

 _and we did bowling the day after_

 _[3:10PM]:_

 _i had never been before_

[3:25PM]:

Oh that would've been cool. How'd you go?

 _[3:31PM]:_

 _i wasnt very good_

[3:35PM]:

I'm sure you did fine.

 _[3:43PM]:_

 _how are you?_

[3:47PM]:

Good. I've been good. How about you?

 _[3:51PM]:_

 _i have been ok_

 _[3:53PM]:_

 _are you working much_

[4:12PM]:

Mostly stuff around home. Scott's been helping me out on this job and it's keeping me busy. I haven't fallen off anything yet, so I'm good.

 _[4:19PM]:_

 _scott?_

[4:21PM]:

From the party. Scott Lang.

 _[4:28PM]:_

 _the orange slice guy_

[4:31PM]:

Yep, the orange slice guy.

 _[4:38PM]:_

 _i liked him_

[4:45PM]:

He's a good guy.

[4:46PM]:

.. **..**

[4:49PM]:

You working much?

 _[4:53PM]:_

 _a little_

[4:59PM]:

That's good. I'm glad.

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey I need a favor. Just a small one.

 **Vision:**

Certainly.

* * *

SAT 24 OCTOBER

"Laura. Hi. Just—fuck. Gimme a sec."

The bags of groceries on the counter almost spill over and onto the floor, but Clint manages to stop them just in time. He grabs at his iPhone, nearly drops that as well, because that's just the kind of day he's having.

"Hi. Yeah, I'm fine. Jammed my thumb in the truck door on my way in. What color is it? It's a mix of faded red and rust-brown. Oh, you meant my thumb. It's kinda red." he muses, staring down at his slowly darkening nail. "It's so not—yeah, that's not what you want. It's getting dark, like it might bruise. I really hope it doesn't fall off again. Mm, yeah. I know. It's actually pretty gross for me too, since it's my thumb. But yeah, I know. It's gross. I'll just stick a Band-Aid on it."

 _"You probably should."_

"If I could just remember where those stupid—"

 _"In the cabinet above the sink. The blue container."_ Laura helpfully suggests. _"Top left cupboard. Top left, Clint, not that one. The left one. The door handle sticks a little, so you just have to pull on it twice."_

"How'd you know?" he asks, pulling out the old container and setting it down on the table.

The Band-Aid is a little difficult to stick on, with a mobile balanced between his ear and shoulder, a hand keeping it there. The other hand is unavailable, but Clint manages to do fairly well. He's surprised his skin isn't covered in Band-Aids, after the kind of year he's had.

 _"I'm just really, really smart."_ she says.

"That's true."

 _"You sound different."_

Clint makes a small noise, phone still tucked up against his ear as he starts unpacking the pile of groceries he'd left on the counter.

"Why does everybody keep saying that? I look different, or I sound different, or I just seem it. But I don't see it. I'm the same guy I've always been. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Me sounding different."

 _"I'm not so sure."_

"Well, you sound good." Clint says, and shoves a tub of Ben & Jerry's away in the refrigerator. "I meant to call. I know we were supposed to meet."

 _"Did something happen?"_

"You could say that."

He unpacks the rest of the groceries and makes small talk with Laura: work, weather, Mad Men, and everything else in between. It's easy, way more than he remembers it being. Maybe, Clint thinks, we were always better off like this, as friends. He deftly skirts around the topic of Pietro, thinks it won't be brought up at all, but then again, Laura knows everything.

 _"You broke up, didn't you?_ " she asks quietly. It sounds like she pities him. _"What happened? You haven't said a word about him since we started talking."_

"I don't know what happened."

 _"Clint."_

"I don't know, Laura. I don't."

 _"You can talk to me."_

"You didn't call me to talk about that, Laura, so let's just get to it. To whatever thing you called me to talk about, because I'm really not gonna talk about that thing."

 _"Not with me,"_ she asks. _"Or not at all?"_

"At all. Not ever, if I can help it."

 _"I don't see how that's going to help—"_

"Laura, I appreciate it, but no."

 _"Okay, well, I'm calling because you were supposed to come around to the house and you never showed. You never told me why. You didn't text. So I gave you space, because this isn't the first time you've done something like this. But then a couple days grew into a week, and I started to worry."_

"You don't need to worry about me. I don't want you worrying about me, Laura."

 _"I thought something bad might've happened."_

"Nothing did. I'm sorry for not calling."

 _"Just—please text me, when something like that happens and you want some quiet time. I understand. You know I do. Just let me know."_

"I'll call next time. Promise."

 _"Why don't I come around tomorrow? You can help me pack all those heavy boxes into my car."_

"Sure," Clint nods, leaning some of his weight against a kitchen counter. "I know Lucky will be happy to see you again. It's been way too long."

 _"I've missed you two."_

Clint exhales a low, shaky breath. With the hand that isn't pressing the phone to his ear, he rubs at his temple, and thinks about Pietro; about what his life is like now, weeks down the track since they split up. He bites down on his lip, feels his eyes sting, and god, he can't. He can't cry on the phone to his ex-fiancé. It'll come across as weird and strange, like he's still hung up on Laura, when he's really just missing Pietro.

"And we've missed you, so damn much."

 _"Can I give you some advice, Clint?"_

"What? Make sure all my fingers and toes are out of the truck before shutting the door? Little bit late for that, isn't it?"

 _"That isn't the advice."_

"No? Then what is it?"

 _"Don't be afraid to go after what you want."_

"I'm afraid of clowns, Laura, and that's it."

 _"We both know what I mean, Clint. You can make jokes all you want, but we still know. Don't be afraid to go after it this time."_ she trails off, and there's something wistful and almost sad about it.

He thinks of Lucky, of his friends and the business he's still trying to get up and running, of his favorite bar. The farm. Laura. It's all here. All of it, except for Pietro. He thinks of Pietro. There's rarely a moment where he's not thinking of Pietro.

 _"Yeah. I think it's too late for that,"_ he says. And he's not just admitting it to her, but to himself. _"I let him go."_

"So get him back," she urges.

Like it's that easy.

Like the thought hasn't crossed his mind.

Clint sighs, pushing himself of the counter. He takes a few steps forward, not sure where he's walking to, only knows that he has to keep moving.

 _"There comes a point in your life where you have to start doing what's best for you, and not everyone else around you."_ Laura begins. _"Don't punish yourself for Barney, or what happened in the past. Don't think about it, Clint. Let yourself be happy. You need to, just this once. The rest will work itself."_

"You don't know that."

 _"Trust me, Clint, I do know. It's worth the risk."_

* * *

MON 26 OCTOBER

[4:06PM]:

I saw Laura yesterday.

 _[6:37PM]:_

 _how is she?_

[7:09PM]:

She's great. We had lunch. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. You don't wanna know.

 _[7:15PM]:_

 _i might want to know_

 _[7:16PM]:_

 _so tell me things_

[7:27PM]:

Your song keeps playing every single time I put the radio on. It was right after you hurt your ankle. We spent hours there on that couch. You fell asleep on me, remember? I was listening to that song.

[7:30PM]:

Now it makes me think of you. I might not have any right to say it, but I still think about you.

 _[7:41PM]:_

 _my song? what if i dont like it_

[7:45PM]:

When I hear it I think about you, so that makes it your song. Sorry, I don't make the rules. It's yours.

 _[7:51PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[7:58PM]:_

 _"did you write the book of love"_

[8:04PM]:

You know it?

 _[9:31PM]:_

 _i wasnt asleep that afternoon_

* * *

WED 4 NOVEMBER  


 **Steve Rogers:**

Dinner at Nat's tonight. You in?

 **Clint Barton:**

Wish I could, but I got plans.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Going to Lang's again?

You could ask him round for dinner at Nat's

There's always room for more

 **Clint Barton:**

Nope I'm just working late

Make sure you beat 'em at charades. Kick their asses.

You gotta watch out for Nat. She's sneaky. Oh and see if you can make Sam cry again like he did last year.

 **Steve Rogers:**

That was all Bucky.

 **Clint Barton:**

I don't know, man, you're kind of a badass when it comes to charades. And at Pictionary. Now that I think about it, you kick ass at most board games.

Except that one game of Monopoly.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Which is why we don't play Monopoly anymore.

* * *

THURS 5 NOVEMBER  


 _[3:55PM]:_

 _how did you know?_

[4:38PM]:

Know what?

 _[4:41PM]:_

 _about the music box_

 _[4:42PM]:_

 _how did you know_

[4:48PM]:

Right. Vision gave it to you.

 _[4:53PM]:_

 _yes he did and i dont know what to say_

[5:06PM]:

That's easy, don't say anything. It's just a gift.

 _[5:19PM]:_

 _no no its more than that_

[5:26PM]:

I asked Wanda about it right after our first date. I found one in some old antique store. It's probably not anything at all like the original one your parents had, but it was the best I could find.

 _[5:34PM]:_

 _its perfect thank you_

[5:59PM]:

Don't thank me. Just enjoy it.

 _[6:04PM]:_

 _you didnt have to do this_

[6:16PM]:

I know. But I wanted to. And it's just been sitting in my room, gathering dust. Felt like the right time to hand it over. I should've done it sooner.

 _[6:19PM]:_

 _no the timing is perfect xx_

* * *

SUN 8 NOVEMBER  


9:41AM  
Voicemail

Pietro (00:21)  
September 15, at 3:31PM

Pietro (01:17)  
September 15, at 3:49PM

Laura (00:41)  
November 8, at 9:41AM

The first voicemail is barely audible; Pietro's voice is low, drowned out by the sound of traffic and people, always so much noise. But Clint manages to catch fragments of it, and it's easy enough to fill in the blanks.

 _"Hi. It's me again—tried to—calling you again. I know you don't—me right now. Please let me know you are ok. It's—something I wanted to talk about. Bye."_

Weeks have passed since Pietro left the messages. He didn't mention them, not once. A notification of a missed call from Laura was the only reason why Clint decided to check his voicemail, and now he can't stop playing them over and over. Clint hits the second one. It's familiar now, the way Pietro sounds, how his voice crackles down the line. He must still be outside, sitting near traffic or a busy coffee shop.

He takes a deep breath then says _, "I should have told you about Washington from the start, Clint. And about the_ _kiss. I should have told you. I'm sorry."_

Even when the message stops, it's still there somewhere, playing quietly in a corner of Clint's mind. He remembers the sound of Pietro's voice—a voice Clint has missed so much—and then the words, _please call me back, I love you, call me_. He can't get it out of his head. For the next few days, it's the only thing he can hear.

* * *

WED 11 NOVEMBER

[9:06AM]:

Hey, Nat. You got Thor's number? Need his help moving some stuff around on the weekend.

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey I got a job for you this weekend. That's if you're still interested. Nothing electrical. But I remember you're not half bad with a paint brush.

 **Scott Lang:**

Aw, not half bad? Thanks man.

 **Clint Barton:**

You interested?

 **Scott Lang:**

I'm so in. But only if we can grab dinner after. I know this great Thai place. You'll love it.

 **Clint Barton:**

Don't worry about dinner.

 **Scott Lang:**

What? Lame. I gotta eat or I get hangry.

 **Clint Barton:**

I mean, don't worry. I'll cook.

 **Scott Lang:**

You can cook? Seriously?

 **Clint Barton:**

Yes, seriously. Why's that so hard to believe?

 **Scott Lang:**

No, no, not hard to believe.

You've been holding out on me this whole time. We've had bad pizza and slightly better pizza. Very mediocre pizza. Even worse garlic bread. So much take-out. And this whole time, he can cook.

 **Clint Barton:**

Yes, he can cook.

This is a once in a life time opportunity. You don't wanna miss out, do you?

 **Scott Lang:**

There's no way I'm missing this.

 **Clint Barton:**

Not to brag, but I'm pretty awesome. At most things.

 **Scott Lang:**

Awesome AND humble.

* * *

TUES 17 NOVEMBER

DRAFT [6:58PM]:

That damn song came on the radio. The same one from Darcy's birthday. I swear, every couple days, I'll hear it. I wake up and it's playing. Go to sleep and I can still hear it. Makes me think of you every single time.

* * *

THURS 19 NOVEMBER

 _[1:07AM]:_

 _hi are you there?_

[1:11AM]:

Hey, I'm here. What's your still doing up?

[1:12AM]:

Isn't it way past your bedtime?

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _very funny. that one never gets old_

 _[1:26AM]:_

 _unlike you_

[1:26AM]:

Unlike me.

 _[1:28AM]:_

 _what are you still doing up?_

[1:30AM]:

Well, I'm an adult. We don't have curfew.

[1:31AM]:

I napped today. Like an adult. I guess I'm just not tired right now. Might have something to do with the coffee I had earlier. Why are you up? Not sleeping so well?

 _[1:38AM]:_

 _im sleeping fine just restless tonight_

 _[1:38AM]:_

 _and i miss you_

 _[1:41AM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[1:44AM]:_

 _i know im not supposed to say it_

[1:48AM]:

You can say anything you want to

 _[1:50AM]:_

 _well i miss you_

 _[1:51AM]:_

 _but dont feel like you have to say it back_

[1:55AM]:

I'm not saying it just because you did, alright? I miss you. Are you kidding? Of course I miss you. You gotta know that.

 _[1:59AM]:_

 _so you do miss me_

[2:02AM]:

Of course I do

[2:03AM]:

You should probably get some rest

[2:03AM]:

And I gotta get up in a few hrs so I should at least try. I'll text you in the morning. Try to get some sleep? x

 _[2:08AM]:_

 _night clint xx_

[2:11AM]:

Call me if you need me. x

* * *

SAT 21 NOVEMBER

[1:41PM]:

Mild or spicy? :-)

[1:43PM]:

I even did it with that stupid nose you like.

 _[1:48PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[1:51PM]:_

 _you did the face_

[1:56PM]:

I did the face.

 _[1:59PM]:_

 _i knew you liked me_

[2:05PM]:

I do. Now admit that you like me.

 _[2:08PM]:_

 _you are not so bad.. :P_

[2:11PM]:

Not so bad? Is that a compliment?

[2:14PM]:

Doesn't matter. I'll take it anyway.

 _[2:18PM]:_

 _of course you will_

[2:23PM]:

So? Mild or spicy?

 _[2:28PM]:_

 _i might need to think on this_

[2:31PM]:

That's ok. I'm a patient man.

[2:33PM]:

And it's a tough decision.

 _[2:37PM]:_

 _very tough_

[2:41PM]:

You're the only thing that matters. I'm serious about that. I know I'm not supposed to say it, but I had to.

 _[2:47PM]:_

 _clint_

[2:50PM]:

I know, I got no right to say it.

 _[2:53PM]:_

 _its been two months_

[2:54PM]:

I know.

 _[2:58PM]:_

 _why didnt you say it sooner_

[3:00PM]:

I thought I was doing the right thing.

[3:04PM]:

You know I finally finished the house? Well, almost. It's so different. Laura's boxes are gone. I cleaned out the front room. Fixed up the dodgy lights. And painted it all, except the living room. That's just how we left it.

[3:07PM]:

Do you think you could ever take me back?

 _[3:09PM]:_

 _what would be different now? what if you need to clear your head again and end things_

[3:15PM]:

I wouldn't do that

 _[3:16PM]:_

 _you know how i feel about you  
_

 _[3:18PM]:_

 _but you already did it once_

[3:19PM]:

I waited too long, didn't I?

[3:20PM]:

You know what? Don't say anything. Changed my mind. I don't want to know. I'm happier not knowing. It's alright.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _you already know my answer_

[3:27PM]:

Yeah?

 _[3:30PM]:_

 _spicy_

[3:31PM]:

Good call.

 _[3:35PM]:_

 _do you want to know what i think_

[3:41PM]:

About salsa?

 _[3:43PM]:_

 _no not about salsa_

 _[3:43PM]:_

 _about us_

[3:47PM]:

Yeah. Go ahead?

 _[3:51PM]:_

 _why did we even break up? so you could figure stuff out_

 _[3:54PM]:_

 _i would have been there_

 _[3:55PM]:_

 _you didnt need to end things i would have waited for you to be ready i would be a patient man  
_

[4:01PM]:

I didn't want to ask you to wait.

 _[4:04PM]:_

 _why not_

[4:09PM]:

Because that would've been selfish.

[4:11PM]:

I wanted you to be happy

 _[4:14PM]:_

 _i was happy with you_

 _[4:17PM]:_

 _i asked so much of you clint i asked you to move here to leave everyone behind n start again_

 _[4:21PM]:_

 _you could have asked this of me_

 _[4:22PM]:_

 _but you didnt want to, why? because you dont like to ask people for things_

[4:26PM]:

That's not true

 _[4:28PM]:_

 _it is_

 _[4:28PM]:_

 _you think you dont deserve them_

[4:25PM]:

I'm asking you now.

 _[4:27PM]:_

 _to wait?_

[4:30PM]:

Wait. Take me back. Start again.

 _[4:32PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

* * *

A/N: Thanks for being so patient!


	39. Chapter 39

Clint | _Pietro_

* * *

SAT 21 NOVEMBER

 _[4:32PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

[4:33PM]:

You said I didn't need to end things, but it felt like the right call at the time.

 _[4:35PM]:_

 _and now? what time does it feel like_

[4:38PM]:

Time to pick up where we left off. Give it another go and see what happens. But if you don't want to do that, I'd understand.

 _[4:40PM]:_

 _do you ever think about it sometimes? what could have happened with us_

[4:43PM]:

If you never left, or if I went to DC with you?

 _[4:44PM]:_

 _both_

[4:47PM]:

Yeah, of course I think about it. I'd be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind. I've thought about it a lot these last few months.

 _[4:50PM]:_

 _it could have been so different_

[4:55PM]:

You know you could've told me, right? About DC. I don't want you to be scared of me or scared about telling me stuff. I would've listened. You know that, don't you? I'll always listen.

[4:57PM]:

I'm not half as grumpy as you think I am.

 _[4:59PM]:_

 _i wasnt scared of you_

[5:01PM]:

Then why didn't you tell me? About DC, the kiss, or how you were feeling.

 _[5:05PM]:_

 _i wanted to tell you so many times_

[5:09PM]:

So why didn't you?

 _[5:09PM]:_

 _it never felt like the right moment, then it just got too late and i didnt know what to do i was afraid i would ruin it_

[5:12PM]:

For this to work, we have to trust each other.

 _[5:15PM]:_

 _do you trust me?_

[5:17PM]:

.. **..**

[5:19PM]:

I want to.

 _[5:23PM]:_

 _and you still want this?_

[5:28PM]:

More than anything.

[5:29PM]:

I'm not asking you to move back here, and I'm not saying I'll move there either. I don't know what I'm saying. I just think we deserve another chance at this, don't you? We had something really good for awhile there. Don't you want to get that back?

 _[5:34PM]:_

 _after everything i did i thought you would hate me, so why do you want this? you should hate me_

[5:38PM]:

You really think that's possible?

 _[5:44PM]:_

 _maybe a little_

[5:46PM]:

Then you're just as crazy as I thought you were. I don't hate you, Pietro. I could never feel that way about you.

 _[5:48PM]:_

 _no?_

[5:51PM]:

Not even a little.

 _[5:54PM]:_

 _do you think it would be different now?_

[5:57PM]:

If we tried again?

[5:59PM]:

I don't know, maybe.

[6:00PM]:

We were so good together and I don't want that to change. Maybe it'll just be the little things. Like no secrets. We'll talk more. That might've been where we went wrong last time. We just stopped talking about everything.

[6:01PM]:

Whatever happens, I don't wanna go back to that. I still need you in my life.

 _[6:03PM]:_

 _why? i made such a mess of things_

[6:08PM]:

Because I like you. And my life felt better with you in it. So things got messy, but they weren't always that way. People screw up. I know I have.

 _[6:12PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[6:14PM]:_

 _so you do still like me?_

[6:18PM]:

Like you even need to ask. Yeah, I do. I more than like you. I watched Hellboy with you, and went for ice-cream with you, and won all those cute stuffed animals for you. And I gave you a piggyback when you couldn't walk even though I was 99% sure you were faking it.

 _[6:21PM]:_

 _i wanted to call you i almost did so many times_

[6:22PM]:

Why didn't you?

 _[6:27PM]:_

 _i was too mad_

[6:29PM]:

At me?

 _[6:32PM]:_

 _no no at myself_

 _[6:34PM]:_

 _all of the things you said were true and i knew it was too late to fix what i had done. i tried so hard to keep you with me but all that did was push you away_

[6:39PM]:

I'm still here, aren't I? Yeah, I didn't love feeling like the bad guy. I hated it actually. But I'm not just this totally unreasonable guy. The distance sucked and we missed each other. These kind of relationships can be really hard. I kept trying to get it back to the way it was before. I know you were just trying to do the same, in your own way.

[6:40PM]:

We were trying our best.

 _[6:42PM]:_

 _perhaps i could have tried harder_

[6:45PM]:

Maybe we both could have. We can now?

DRAFT [6:46PM]:

But if you need time, I can give you that.

[6:48PM]:

If you can't say yes, then will you just think about it? We can figure the rest out along the way. That's half the fun, isn't it? At least that's what everybody keeps telling me. I can wait for your answer.

 _[6:51PM]:_

 _you know how i feel_

[6:53PM]:

Yeah?

 _[6:54PM]:_

 _i want to try again_

[6:56PM]:

What's holding you back?

 _[7:00PM]:_

 _what if i hurt you like the last time  
_

[7:03PM]:

Let me worry about that, yeah? I'm a big boy. And we can put the rest of it behind us. I know I'd regret not giving us another shot.

 _[7:05PM]:_

 _i dont deserve it_

[7:06PM]:

Don't say that.

 _[7:09PM]:_

 _why not? all i ever did was make it worse_

[7:12PM]:

That's just not true. Can I call you? We should talk about this and I don't wanna keep doing it through here.

* * *

 _"Hello? Are you there, old man?"_

The smell of fresh paint is thick in the air. A final coat, just touching up the corners and tidying up some of Scott's mistakes. Clint's pacing out in the hallway when the call connects, his nerves already frayed and they haven't even spoken yet. Two long months since the split, since he's heard that voice, since he's been called old man. Clint almost forgot what he sounded like.

Which is a lie.

He'd never forget that voice.

He has all those voicemails too, of course. The few videos that Pietro snapped on Clint's phone of their adventures in the Great Unknown, a.k.a the path in the woods by Clint's house. He has their memories; every time he passes by the shower, he swears he can still hear Pietro's off-key singing, even though he hasn't been to the house in months.

The smell of fresh paint fills Clint's nostrils, a little too strong, the kind of thing that might give him a headache in an hour or two. It lingers around even though he finished up awhile ago.

White and blue smudges are smeared all over his hands and clothes, deep in the lines of his palms, under his nails, all over his shirt. Somehow, despite all the years of practice, he still manages to get it everywhere. It's just one of those things he _always_ manages to get everywhere, like sand or coffee, or Laura's bright nail polish whenever she'd get Clint to do it for her.

When Pietro's quiet voice reaches his ears for the second time, all Clint can focus on is that voice, the way his name sounds coming from Pietro's lips.

The way it sounds like he might be smiling.

 _"Clint?"_

"Hey, yeah. I'm here. I was just—" Clint cuts himself off abruptly, unable to find a suitable lie.

 _"Just?"_ he sounds amused.

"Listening."

 _"To what?"_

"You." Clint leans against a nearby wall, gaze fixed on the screen door and the storm clouds gathering beyond it. "I was listening to you. To the sound of your voice. I almost forgot what you sounded like, can you believe that? Almost."

 _"This can happen when you get old."_

"Oh, that's super harsh." Clint winces. "You know how sensitive I am about my age. Very harsh."

 _"Was it? I'm sorry."_

"I don't think you are."

 _"Maybe a little."_

"We're five seconds in and you're already insulting me?" he thinks he might hear Pietro laugh, quietly, the sound partially smothered.

But he might be wrong.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you? Not a bit."

 _"Mm. You would be surprised."_

"I'm very rarely surprised."

 _"You wanted to talk?"_ Pietro asks.

He sounds far too serious, much more than Clint remembers him being. It's unlike him to cut right to it, but then again, it has been two months. Maybe he _has_ changed. Maybe it's all the little things Clint no longer gets to see or know. Pushing himself off the wall, he wanders into the living room. The cool wooden boards are almost too cold underneath his feet, even with socks on.

Maybe this is how it is for them now. Clint hopes it doesn't stay this way, so distant and quiet and not like it was before.

Three seconds later, he's wandering back out into the hall, so distracted by the voice on the other end of the line that he's not sure where he's going.

 _"Are you still there?"_

"I'm here. You're not too busy to talk?"

Pietro hesitates, which makes Clint wonder, makes him worry, but he shuts that thought down before it can fester and grow. Instead of overthinking any of it, he quietly waits. He would wait weeks or months or however long it takes, but only if Pietro actually wants him to.

 _"Not too busy for this, no."_

"That's good."

 _"I don't know what to say first."_

Where to start, Clint muses. "What's this about you not deserving a second chance?" he tries to keep his voice level and soft, he doesn't want it to come across as sharp. "I don't know why you'd say that, kid. It's just—it's so stupid. And not true."

 _"So you think I'm being silly, hm?"_

"A little bit, yeah, if we're being honest." the words are out of his mouth too quick, maybe. "You're not silly. But if anybody deserves another chance, it's you. We both deserve it, don't you think?"

That seems to throw Pietro, who doesn't answer right away. When he does, he sounds unsure of himself, and maybe of Clint as well.

 _"I meant what I said."_

"Then explain it to me."

 _"What?"_

"I want to understand, so explain it to me."

Pietro doesn't say anything. There's a rustle and a sigh, followed by what sounds like a door clicking shut. Clint's not sure. He used to be so much better at this; he could get a sense of Pietro, how he was, or what he was doing, all through a telephone call. But now, he can't get much of a read on him at all, which is unsettling to say the least.

"Come on, tell me."

 _"Tell you what?"_

"Why you think you don't deserve it."

 _"Because, Clint. Because of everything that happened between us. I shouldn't have said most of the things I did,"_ Pietro sighs. He sounds tired, sounds closer than he had a moment ago. _"And I don't know how to take them back. I want to fix this, somehow, but I don't know how to."_

Clint plops down onto the staircase, wincing at the stiffness of his joints. "It really wasn't that bad, you know."

 _"What wasn't?"_

"The things you said. They weren't that bad."

 _"But they were all still,"_ he trails off. _"_ _I still said them, Clint. All of those things. I kept secrets from you, and I said very bad things, and I don't expect that you will ever forgive me for any of this."_

It's all so quick and rushed, as though he's afraid if he doesn't say it all now, all at once, he'll never get another chance to.

"Hey, hey, easy. Slow down. It's alright."

For a moment, it's too quiet between them, in a way Clint doesn't remember it being at the start. A part of him wants to go back to that—to that newness, and that giddy feeling pulling at his insides on the night of the carnival. A bigger part of Clint knows that feeling never went away: it just got lost.

He whistles Lucky over to him, and the dog comes running, sitting by Clint's feet at the bottom of the stairs. He hooks a finger underneath Lucky's chin and scratches.

"What if I said I didn't care about any of it?"

 _"You should care."_

"But I don't."

 _"No, no, you should care. If I could do it,"_ he pauses, sucking in a low breath. _"_ _I'd take it all back. All of the things I said. And I would never leave. I would never leave you."_

"I'm not that easy to get rid of, remember? Yeah, so we aren't together right now, but that doesn't mean we can't be, y'know, together. Like before, when we tried to give this thing a go. I'm ready to try again, if you are. Unless you actually do wanna get rid of me. If that's the case, we can just pretend this call never even happened."

 _"Why would I ever want that?"_

"I can think of a few reasons."

 _"Well I can't."_ Pietro sniffs.

"You know how I feel." he presses the phone closer to his ear, ducking his head slightly, voice lowered as he says, "I never gave up on that. I talked myself in circles about everything else, but not that."

The _not you_ part goes unspoken.

He has to know by now, Clint thinks, _has to know I never gave up on him._ There's another pause, and another of those too quiet moments. Clint doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he's forced to exhale. He doesn't know what to expect, or even what to say next, this is such strange new territory for them after so long apart.

"You're killing me here, you know that?" he aims for it to sound light-hearted and teasing, but it doesn't get the laugh from Pietro that Clint was hoping for. "If you need time, I can wait. I'd understand. I just gotta know what you're thinking."

 _"Clint,"_ he says, so quiet it's almost missed. _"I don't know how to say it. You should be with someone who won't do that to you. Someone who—"_

"There's nobody else."

 _"Someone who won't do the things I did."_

"We all screw up. This time, we'll talk. I don't care about the rest of it. If we've got a problem, we talk about it. Maybe I should care more about the other stuff, but I don't. It doesn't matter to me. You're the most important thing to me. I don't wanna give this up."

 _"I don't want that either."_

"Yeah? Then what do you want?"

 _"I know I don't want to be that man."_

"What man?"

 _"The one that you spoke of,"_ Pietro's voice hitches slightly, barely noticeable. But Clint notices it. He's so painfully aware of every pause, every breath.

He taps a nervous finger against the outside of his thigh, and tries to remember.

"I still don't know what man."

 _"You said that you would never be him. The man who wastes someone else's time. Do you remember? You said it on the night of the carnival."_ he says. _"_ _I don't want to be him."_

Clint takes a breath and asks, "Why do you think that? You think you're wasting my time?"

 _"I won't do that. I just don't want you to look back at this moment in a year and think you wasted a chance on me. That you wasted time, when you could have left things be. I want you to be sure."_

"I won't think that. Not ever, I promise."

 _"Are you sure?"_

"Yeah, I am."

Clint's the one who sounds breathy now, his voice catching in a way that makes it sound like he's on the verges of tears. Which he might be, just a little; eyes watery, throat tight, a hand balled into a loose fist resting on his knee.

 _"I should have asked you sooner, I think."_

"You don't need to ask at all."

 _"No? Why not?"_

"Because you already know what my answer is."

His voice is barely more than a whisper. A quiet, tentative murmur, but it sounds hopeful. _"I would still like to ask you. Will you take me back? I want to do as you said. I want to try."_

Clint smiles, and imagines that Pietro's doing the same. This time, he can hear it in his voice, he can picture it so vividly it's like Pietro is right there with him, sitting next to him on the staircase. And for the first time in a long time, he feels hopeful.

"That's all I want."

 _"Is that a yes?"_

"Yeah, you bet it is."

He doesn't know how much time passes by, but it doesn't feel like very long at all: this part now feels easier, catching up on the last two months, talking about everything and nothing. Clint can't wipe the smile off his face. When he finally gets up from his spot on the staircase, phone still poised to his ear, it's much colder and darker, and is pouring down with rain outside. He barely even notices.

* * *

 _[8:43PM]:_

 _what are u having for dinner_

[8:47PM]:

Probably some leftovers. Sad, I know. Don't really feel like cooking. What about you?

 _[8:51PM]:_

 _noodles in a cup_

[8:52PM]:

Good call. :-)

[8:54PM]:

You up to much this weekend?

 _[8:55PM]:_

 _nothing at all i will probably sleep all day_

[9:04PM]:

In this weather, that actually sounds pretty good. I can't do much outside if it keeps up. I guess I can always take a day off. Catch up on some sleep and Netflix. Maybe I could call you tomorrow?

 _[9:13PM]:_

 _i would like that very much.. :-)_

 _[9:13PM]:_

 _are you tired now?_

[9:17PM]:

Little bit yeah but not too bad

 _[9:24PM]:_

 _clint?_

[9:26PM]:

Yea?

 _[9:28PM]:_

 _i missed you_

[9:32PM]:

Don't need to miss me anymore. I'm right here, and so are you. We'll be good. xx

 _[9:57PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

 _[9:58PM]:_

 _i want you to trust me again  
_

 _[10:03PM]:_

 _do you think you could?_

 _[10:07PM]:_

 _i dont want you to be vision or anyone else. i only wanted you to be you and for us to be together. but i wont push you like that on something again clint_

 _[10:08PM]:_

 _i want to do better this time  
_

 _[10:53PM]:_

 _sweet dreams, my old man xx_

* * *

SUN 22 NOVEMBER

[3:41AM]:

Fell on the couch. Sorry. Msg you in a morn Xxxf

* * *

[9:13AM]:

I didn't actually fall on the couch, in case you were worried. Which you probably weren't, since most couches are usually pretty soft. But my couch? It's deceptively soft. Looks nice, but it isn't. You would know, after all, since you slept on it.

[9:13AM]:

Pretty crappy couch, right?

[9:15AM]:

Also, hi. Morning.

 _[9:17AM]:_

 _morning sleepyhead_

[9:20AM]:

Who you calling sleepyhead? I've been awake for hours. Ok, maybe not, but I've been up for a total of 23 minutes. Roughly. How'd you sleep?

 _[9:23AM]:_

 _better than you i think_

[9:24AM]:

That wouldn't be hard.

[9:24AM]:

Yeah. I don't think anybody slept better than Lucky though, since he got my big ole bed to himself until I stumbled in at almost 4. He was very confused. I thought he'd kick me out of bed for a second there but he let me stay.

[9:25AM]:

There was a lot of pouting. And whining.

 _[9:28AM]:_

 _i would never kick you out of bed_

[9:30AM]:

No? You'd what, shove me?

 _[9:34AM]:_

 _gently nudge you maybe_

[9:36AM]:

Ok, firstly, "gently?"

[9:36AM]:

And secondly, "maybe?"

 _[9:38AM]:_

 _yes? i would be careful not to hurt your old bones_

[9:41AM]:

Since when are you ever gentle? Or careful? You're the least careful person I know. And this is coming from the guy who fell off a roof. But you're the least careful person I've ever met. You jump in head first and worry about the consequences later.

[9:43AM]:

Or it's "consequences? What consequences?"

 _[9:47AM]:_

 _mm perhaps i am a little rough :P_

 _[9:48AM]:_

 _but i am always gentle in bed_

[9:50AM]:

Oh, shut up.

 _[9:53AM]:_

 _i would only shove you if you snored_

[9:58AM]:

So we're back to shoving me? What happened to being gentle in bed? Seems like that's gone right out the window.

 _[10:01AM]:_

 _what does out the window mean_

[10:03AM]:

It's an expression thingy. Also, we both know who really snores and it isn't me.

 _[10:05AM]:_

 _is it you?_

[10:11AM]:

Nope, it's Lucky. But also you.

 _[10:13AM]:_

 _can i have my side of the bed back?_

[10:16AM]:

Maybe.

[10:16AM]:

You did just accuse me of snoring. And you want to shove me out of my own bed. I'm not sure just yet.

 _[10:21AM]:_

 _what if i ask nicely?_

[10:23AM]:

Then you'd be asking nicely, and I'd probably still give you the same answer. Maybe. I guess I kinda miss having you there. Ok, yeah. If you ever wanna visit, that side is all yours. You might have to fight Lucky for it, but it's all yours.

 _[10:26AM]:_

 _until you shove me off it?_

[10:27AM]:

Exactly. :-)

 _[10:30AM]:_

 _did you see my msgs from yesterday?  
_

[10:34AM]:

Oh, yeah. I saw them last night but I was too tired to write up anything that made any sense. But I've had my morning coffees now, so I'm thinking a lot clearer. I can put words and stuff together.

DRAFT [10:35AM]:

I want to trust you. You know that. It's just gonna take a little time before it's, you know. How it was before.

 _[10:38AM]:_

 _what are you thinking clearly about hm?_

[10:42AM]:

I do trust you.

 _[10:44AM]:_

 _just not as much as before?_

[10:45AM]:

I didn't say that

 _[10:47AM]:_

 _clint its ok, i understand these things will take some time yes? lucky for u i am not going anywhere_

[10:53AM]:

Yeah? Is that right?

 _[10:55AM]:_

 _very right :-)_

[10:57AM]:

Yeah? Well, lucky me. So. What are we having for breakfast this morning? Pancakes or waffles?

 _[11:02AM]:_

 _i already ate, hrs ago! porridge mmmm_

[11:06AM]:

Uh no thanks. That's a hard pass.

 _[11:12AM]:_

 _what?  
_

 _[11:12AM]:_

 _why do you not like it? ?  
_

[11:16AM]:

Not even a little bit. It's mushy. And wet. No thanks, I'm ok. You can keep all the porridge for yourself. I prefer my breakfast a little more liquid: coffee. It's the only suitable thing to eat after a crappy night sleep.

 _[11:19AM]:_

 _to eat_

[11:20AM]:

Oh yeah. Mmm. Coffee.

[11:25AM]:

Aww rain.

[11:25AM]:

I'm going back to bed

 _[11:27AM]:_

 _that is a very good decision_

[11:33AM]:

If you hurry, I'll give you back your side of the bed. But only if you're here in the next fifteen minutes, otherwise Lucky's taking the spot back. I can't help it. That beady eye gets me every time.

 _[11:36AM]:_

 _maybe next time?_

[11:43AM]:

You bet.

 _[11:45AM]:_

 _now i feel like waffles_

 _[11:47AM]:_

 _will you make me some_

[11:51AM]:

ZzzzzZZZzzzz

 _[11:53AM]:_

 _not today obviously_

[11:55AM]:

Obviously not, yeah.

 _[11:58AM]:_

 _i thought you were asleep_

 _[12:03PM]:_

 _zzzZZzzzzzzzz_

[12:05PM]:

Hi there, you've reached Clint Barton's answering machine. Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you.

 _[12:10PM]:_

 _bbbbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppp_

[12:15PM]:

That's the message you leave? Really?

 _[12:16PM]:_

 _i want my waffles_

* * *

MON 23 NOVEMBER

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey. So we're kind of back together. Bye!

 **Steve Rogers:**

Kind of? What does 'kind of' mean?

Is that why we didn't hear a word from you over the weekend? I want to say I'm happy for you, but I'm a little confused. Weren't you on a break?

When did this happen?

 **Clint Barton:**

Be happy, Steve. Not confused.

I'm happy for me.

And just over the weekend. We talked. We made up. It's all sorted. I don't know what happens next but maybe that's ok.

 **Steve Rogers:**

You know I didn't mean it like that.

I am happy for you, always. I just want you to be smart about it, because I don't like seeing you hurt. Because I know how much it hurt you when it was over. I was there, remember?

 **Clint Barton:**

That's not gonna happen this time.

 **Steve Rogers:**

It isn't?

 **Clint Barton:**

I can't know for sure, you know? But I have a good feeling. Maybe it'll end just the exact same way, or differently, but I'm hoping it won't.

 **Steve Rogers:**

If you're sure, then I support you. And I'm happy for you. I always liked him.

 **Clint Barton:**

Yeah. He's pretty damn likeable, isn't he?

* * *

 _[1:03PM]:_

 _what changed your mind?_

[2:19PM]:

What?

[2:20PM]:

I feel like I'm missing the first half of that message. What did I change my mind on? Porridge? I'm still pretty iffy on it. I just don't get the appeal. But I'm definitely not the kind of guy who turns down a free breakfast, if you ever make it for me.

 _[2:25PM]:_

 _very funny_

 _[2:25PM]:_

 _i meant about me_

[2:31PM]:

What about you?

 _[2:33PM]:_

 _i know we talked about us but you never said what changed your mind? about the break and needing time  
_

[2:40PM]:

You remember how I met with Laura?

 _[2:41PM]:_

 _for lunch yes i remember_

 _[2:43PM]:_

 _was that it?_

[2:45PM]:

Kinda. It was just seeing her that made me realize it was time to move on. Time to put it all behind me.

[2:47PM]:

Something she said got me thinking.

 _[2:50PM]:_

 _what did she say?_

[2:52PM]:

She told me it was worth the risk. To go after what I want, and not be afraid. To let myself be happy. I don't know. Something about reaching a point in life where you have to change it up. Let the rest of it work itself out. It sounded a lot better when she said it, really. I'm no good at this.

 _[2:56PM]:_

 _i think you did fine_

[2:58PM]:

Yeah? I tried.

 _[3:01PM]:_

 _were you afraid?_

[3:04PM]:

C'mon. We both know I was. A change that big? It scared me. Not much scares me, but that did.

 _[3:08PM]:_

 _.. **..**_

[3:15PM]:

There was stuff I needed to do first before I could commit to something there, or anywhere else. I just couldn't imagine not living here, and this house all empty. Nobody living in it. I've got my friends here, you know? Not all of them. But enough that I didn't feel so bad after Laura left.

[3:16PM]:

What if it didn't work out? That's all I was thinking. Maybe I shouldn't have started off thinking that way, but I couldn't help it.

 _[3:25PM]:_

 _i want it to work this time_

[3:28PM]:

Me too. That's all I want.

[3:31PM]:

Are you free tonight?

 _[3:36PM]:_

 _i will b working 7 til midnight  
_

[3:44PM]:

I'll be here on your break, if you wanna chat.

 _[3:44PM]:_

 _you arent getting sick of me already? :P_

[3:49PM]:

No chance of that happening. Ever.

 _[3:55PM]:_

 _can i ask you something_

[3:57PM]:

Sure. But I think I already know the answer.

 _[4:01PM]:_

 _oh? go ahead_

[4:03PM]:

Have I always been this attractive? Yes I have. And charming? You betcha. Always. I can't help it. This is just the face I was born with. And the charm? It's not something that can be taught.

[4:04PM]:

Any other questions you want me to answer?

 _[4:06PM]:_

 _hahahaha you are a very funny man today_

[4:11PM]:

So he finally admits it. Thank you.

[4:15PM]:

I feel like we got really sidetracked. What was your question?

 _[4:19PM]:_

 _you were afraid then,, are you now?_

[4:22PM]:

Honestly? Yeah, I am. Afraid of losing this.

 _[4:25PM]:_

 _not afraid to go after what you want?_

[4:27PM]:

Not this time.

 _[4:27PM]:_

 _good. neither am i_

 _[4:30PM]:_

 _i might go for a run before work_

[4:31PM]:

I mean, if that's what you really want. Who even likes running anyway? Not me, that's for sure.

 _[4:38PM]:_

 _me, i do :) i like it_

[4:40PM]:

You do your thing, and I'll do mine.

 _[4:41PM]:_

 _and what is your thing?_

[4:43PM]:

I'm eating brownies. Lots of them.

[4:46PM]:

Did you know Sam bakes?

[4:46PM]:

Yeah, me neither. I feel like he's been ripping me off this whole time. These brownies are really fucking good. Like I already ate six. That kind of good. So you enjoy your exercise, and I'll enjoy this delicious chocolatey goodness. Mmmmm. Brownie.

 _[4:49PM]:_

 _haha enjoy your sweet things old man, xx_

[4:50PM]:

Thanks, Speedy. I always do.

* * *

 _[5:13PM]:_

 _there is a really cute dog at the park_

[5:18PM]:

How cute?

 _[5:21PM]:_

 _very small and fluffy_

 _[5:24PM]:_

 _do you want me to send you a pic_

[5:28PM]:

I'd be really upset if you didn't.

[5:31PM]:

Cutest dog ever. After my Lucky, of course.

[5:41PM]:

I want that dog.

 _[5:44PM]:_

 _you want every dog_

[5:47PM]:

I'm not seeing why that's a bad thing.

* * *

TUES 24 NOVEMBER

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _no break tonight, sorry xx  
_

 _[1:23AM]:_

 _sweet dreams_

[1:25AM]:

Hey. I'm here.

 _[1:27AM]:_

 _did i wake u? i didnt mean to_

[1:30AM]:

I wasn't asleep, so it's ok. How was work?

 _[1:37AM]:_

 _not very good one of the girls never showed up so i had to do double the work n then i dropped a glass n it cut my hand  
_

[1:39AM]:

Shit. You ok? How bad is it?

 _[1:42AM]:_

 _hm well it is not so bad like when u fell off that roof since nothing is broken but it bled a lot before  
_

[1:44AM]:

Nobody wants to be reminded of that.

[1:44AM]:

How bad is it? Do you need stitches?

 _[1:45AM]:_

 _it is not so bad. no stitches  
_

[1:50AM]:

Is it deep?

 _[1:51AM]:_

 _not really  
_

 _[1:52AM}:_

 _it does sting a little  
_

[1:55AM]:

I bet it does. Make sure you keep it clean, ok? And if you've got some kind of dressing on it, make sure you change it.

 _[1:57AM]:_

 _i will tmrw too tired now  
_

[2:01AM]:

Get some rest, ok? xx

* * *

THURS 26 NOVEMBER

 _[10:49AM]:_

 _babe_

 _[10:51AM]:_

 _baby_

 _[10:56AM]:_

 _wake up_

 _[10:58AM]:_

 _its important_

 _[11:01AM]:_

 _babe_

[11:33AM]:

I'm up what is it

 _[11:37AM]:_

 _i miss u_

[11:39AM]:

Aw. That's cute. I miss you too.

[11:40AM]:

Sorry I was asleeping

[11:40AM]:

Asleep. My brain is still waking up.

 _[11:41AM]:_

 _you are always asleeping :P_

[11:45AM]:

Not always.

[11:47AM]:

Sometimes I'm eating pizza. Or drinking coffee.

[11:49AM]:

I know that I'm always missing you.

 _[11:47AM]:_

 _somebody is being sweet today_

[11:53AM]:

What? I'm always sweet.

[11:56AM]:

So maybe not always, but I'm trying. What are you doing today, Quicksilver? I'm all yours if you've got time to chat.

 _[12:04PM]:_

 _i dont work til 7 so i have time  
_

 _[12:06PM]:_

 _want to video call? :-)_

[12:11PM]:

Is that why you woke me? Yeah, I'd love to. Let me shower first then I'll call. :-)

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey, there's something I wanna talk to you about. Maybe swing by tonight? I'll cook.

 **Steve Rogers:**

It's about time.

 **Clint Barton:**

About time I invited you over? Or cooked?

Because I cook all the time

 **Steve Rogers:**

Just not for us apparently.

 **Clint Barton:**

Oh, so you're making jokes today.

That's new. Someone should've warned me. It was very alarming.

 **Steve Rogers:**

What time should we be there?

 **Clint Barton:**

We? No, no you're good. Just you.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Bucky gets off work at 6:30

He'll need time to shower and change

So should we say 7?

 **Clint Barton:**

Alright fine. See you guys then!

 **Steve Rogers:**

What brought this on?

 **Clint Barton:**

I got a free night. Should make the most of it.

 **Steve Rogers:**

I'll bring dessert.

 **Clint Barton:**

That's why I love you, Steve. You're always thinking ahead. Do you think it could maybe be something with chocolate sprinkled over it? Thanks!

And you're right, you know. It's about time.

* * *

 _"Where are you?"_

"I'm outside."

Pietro gives him a look.

It's adorable, really. That cute little nose wrinkle, and slightly raised brows, as if to say _"well, yes, I can see that."_ Clint smirks, leaning back against the wooden post. Lucky's snoring happily down the far end of the porch, probably dreaming of big, open fields, and a slobbery chew toy. And Laura's shoes, because he used to love destroying those.

Ever since the split, however short it might've been, things have felt—better. Easier. All of that tension is gone. Just like that. Clint hopes it can always be like this: easy, and nice, and little talks with Pietro on a quiet Thursday morning.

"I'm on the porch. What, you don't recognize it?"

 _"I can see fine, thank you."_

"Sure you can." Clint has a sip of coffee. "You'd look real cute with glasses, y'know. If you're getting old. There's no shame in it. Happens to all of us."

 _"Oh, enough of that."_

"Fine, fine. Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

 _"What?"_

And there's that nose wrinkle again. Pietro leans in towards the camera, hair sleep-tousled and poking up. He's rugged up in some sort of patchwork quilt; vibrant, beautiful colors, countless patterns draped over his shoulders. He looks like home, somehow. A home away from home. He appears to be sitting by a window. When he moves around, jostling the camera around slightly, it shows the small alcove Pietro's tucked away in; rain is streaking down the window behind him, the sky so dark and cloudy, a sharp contrast to Clint's clear blue skies and dusty white clouds.

"It's an expression."

 _"You look tired, old man."_

"Do I?"

 _"Not sleeping enough?"_

"Pretty sure that's just my face." Clint smirks into his cup. "You look warm, by the way. I'm a little jealous."

 _"Is that your fifth coffee of the morning?"_

"Why? You jealous?"

 _"Very jealous, obviously."_

"It's my seventh," he holds up the mug, waving it in front of the camera for longer than necessary. "But you were pretty close. Hey, I don't—where are you? I don't recognize that window."

 _"You would look cute with glasses, you know. If you're getting old."_

"Alright, I get it. You made your point."

 _"We're staying at Vision's."_

"Oh, cool. Looks fancy."

 _"He has nicer pillows."_

"That's pretty awesome. You should definitely take one. What? Don't give me that look. It's one pillow. Nobody would know."

 _"I would."_

"C'mon. It's just a pillow."

 _"You steal it then."_

Clint brings the mug to his lips, pausing before he takes a sip and says, "You know I will. One day, that pillow is mine. I'll just tell 'em you stole it. Wanda likes me. She'll believe me."

 _"Mm."_ Pietro narrows his eyes. _"How much coffee have you really had today?"_

"It's my second cup, I swear."

 _"Have you had something to eat?"_

"Not yet. I'll grab a bite later."

The connection lags a little, on Clint's end anyway, and the screen is stuck on Pietro's face: a faint smile on his lips, and half shut eyes. He must've started to blink. Clint swirls the rest of his coffee around and finishes it in one big mouthful. By then, Skype is finally working again, and there's a quiet rustle as Pietro unwraps a muesli bar and chomps down on it.

 _"Do you want me to send you a picture of Vision's dog today?"_ he asks, between bites of his muesli bar; it has chocolate chips apparently. _"She is very small."_

"God, I want that dog."

 _"You want every dog. All of them."_

Clint sets the empty mug aside and stretches out his legs, readjusting the laptop. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

 _"Will you have enough room for all of us?"_

"What, in this big ole house?"

 _"Yes."_ he nods, eyes bright with amusement. _"Well?"_

"If you sleep on the couch, sure."

 _"Oh, that is very funny."_ Pietro says, with all of the dryness of someone who doesn't find it funny at all. Well, maybe only a little. His eyes give it away, Clint thinks, too bright and too wide. _"You are very funny today. So I will take the couch, and you can share with all of your slobbering dogs."_

"Aw, come on. There's plenty of room for you and me, and Lucky." Clint flattens a palm against his thigh, and picks at the fuzzballs on his sweatpants almost nervously—almost, except he's got nothing to be nervous about. He's just fidgeting. He's being productive, and making his black sweats look less fuzzy. "Oh, and Vision's dog. We can't forget her."

 _"We aren't going to steal her."_

"Of course we aren't."

 _"No, we really aren't."_ Pietro laughs. _"Why would we do that, when you could just get another dog of your own? Rescue one."_

"You gotta help me pick one out then."

 _"Really? You want to get one?"_

"Not yet, but eventually, yeah. If you want to."

Pietro's mouth pulls up into that smile of his, smug and familiar, and warm. He drags a hand through messy, silver strands, pushing it back off his face. Those eyes, Clint thinks. Those eyes, sharp and blue, and familiar. Pietro climbs out of the alcove, finished with his breakfast. The patchwork blanket slips off his shoulders, revealing an old faded band t-shirt underneath. It's loose and dark, with small holes along the collar.

"Oh, you'll like this." Clint begins, already grinning. "Steve's knitting you a sweater. I think it'll go with mine from last year. Don't tell him I told you, or he'll get all," he gestures vaguely. "You know how he is. He gets so weird about presents."

A noise of shuffling—the blanket dragging across the floor, Clint realizes—is the only sound, at first. Pietro navigates his way up a flight of stairs, and everything around him is a blur of silver and white. There's a glimpse of red curtains, before Pietro's shutting himself away in a bedroom.

 _"Now we will be matching."_

"You look cold."

 _"The blanket helps."_ Pietro shrugs.

"A shirt might help more."

 _"What? I'm wearing one."_

"Yeah, but maybe one that isn't full of holes."

He's gone for what feels like a long moment. The laptop is on the bed, but he isn't. Several articles of clothing are strewn across the mattress. When he returns, dropping down in front of the laptop, Pietro is proudly wearing Clint's old sweater: dark green, a little too big on him, with the sleeves hanging down over Clint's own hands, but a perfect fit for Pietro.

 _"Better?"_ he asks, quirking an eyebrow at Clint.

"Much better."

 _"Mm, no, I would be much better if you were here to warm me up. But I can wait for that."_

"Yeah? So can I," Clint lifts a hand to the corner of the screen. "Doesn't matter how long. I'll wait."

There's something different about Pietro, and Clint can't put his finger on it. There's a vulnerability to them both now that wasn't there before, but that's not it. He wants to say: _if I could, I'd never end it._ But Clint made his choices. He needed time to be ready, to finish the house, every last odd job. Time to heal. Now he has. And he could be wrong, but it feels as though Pietro has too.

* * *

FRI 27 NOVEMBER

 **Clint Barton:**

Hey, man. You free tonight?

 **Scott Lang:**

I had something on, but it fell through, so yes!

Where's the job? At yours?

 **Clint Barton:**

No job. Wanna grab a drink?

 **Scott Lang:**

Oh, yeah. I'd love to. Are we celebrating?

 **Clint Barton:**

Something like that, yeah. I'll pick you up at 6?

 **Scott Lang:**

Sure pal, see you at 6!

 **Clint Barton:**

Awesome. See you then.

* * *

[11:57AM]:

I've been thinking about you a lot today.

* * *

 **Clint Barton:**

I'd totally understand if you changed your mind.

 **Steve Rogers:**

We haven't. It's a good call, Clint. :)

 **Clint Barton:**

It won't be forever. Just a few weeks.

 **Steve Rogers:**

Take as much time as you need.

* * *

 _[1:43PM]:_

 _you have? what have you been thinking_

[1:55PM]:

I don't know. You were just in my head.

 _[1:58PM]:_

 _good or bad kind of thoughts_

[2:04PM]:

The good kind, of course.

 _[2:07PM]:_

 _i hope u continue to have only good thoughts for the rest of the day x  
_

[2:15PM]:

Thanks babe, you too.

 _[2:30PM]:_

 _busy tonight? we can watch hellboy II again_

[2:34PM]:

Wish I could. I got plans with Scott.

[2:34PM]:

I'll ring you tomorrow?

 _[2:37PM]:_

 _ok sure :) try to have fun cowboy_

[2:40PM]:

Hey, I can have fun. I'm a super fun guy.

[2:40PM]:

Sometimes.

[2:41PM]:

Ok, I'll try.

* * *

[9:54PM]:

Im drunk

[9:54PM]:

And i miss you

[9:56PM]:

Why isnt there like a sad sunglasses emoji to show that i am sad but still cool

[9:59PM]:

Yea still cool

 _[10:15PM]:_

 _..._

 _[10:17PM]:_

 _you are very cool  
_

[10:20PM]:

Not very drunk

 _[10:23PM]:_

 _why are you sad?  
_

[10:25PM]:

Cause I miss you

 _[10:31PM]:_

 _vision told me you werent drinking much?_

[10:33PM]:

Why did he told you that

 _[10:35PM]:_

 _i asked how you were_

[10:38PM]:

You asked about me? i asked about you

[10:39PM]:

Only a few drinks

[10:39PM]:

I blame Scotty

 _[10:44PM]:_

 _you can drink clint, its ok_

[10:47PM]:

We were celebrating

 _[10:50PM]:_

 _that sounds fun :)_

[10:53PM];

I love you

[10:53PM]:

I didnt say that enough today

 _[10:55PM]:_

 _are you still out?_

[11:04PM]:

No just home

[11:07PM]:

I dont think i can get my clothes off

[11:07PM]:

shoes are really hard

 _[11:16PM]:_

 _be careful on the stairs?_

* * *

SAT 28 NOVEMBER

[9:48AM]:

Hi there

 _[9:54AM]:_

 _morning :) how does your head feel?_

[10:05AM]:

Sore. Achy. Not very good at all.

[10:09AM]:

I'm way too old for this

 _[10:16AM]:_

 _take an aspirin old man you will feel better_

[10:20AM]:

Will do once everything stops spinning.

 _[10:21AM]:_

 _did you enjoy yourself?_

[10:23AM]:

Yeah. Scott's lots of fun.

 _[10:25AM]:_

 _what were you celebrating?_

[10:27AM]:

I'm finally all done with the house. Which is a pretty big achievement for me, considering how long it's taken me to get here. And Scott helped out a lot, so I figured I owed the guy a drink or two.

[10:27AM]:

Or six. I don't remember.

 _[10:31AM]:_

 _did you manage to get your clothes off?_

[10:34AM]:

What?

[10:35AM]:

Oh, yeah. Some of them.

 _[10:37AM]:_

 _but not the shoes?_

[10:38AM]:

Not the shoes, I slept in those.

 _[10:41AM]:_

 _im proud of you clint_

[10:43AM]:

For getting my clothes off? Thanks. It was difficult, but I mostly got there in the end. Mostly.

 _[10:45AM]:_

 _for the house silly_

[10:50AM]:

I know, I know. Thanks.

 _[10:53AM]:_

 _i will have to come see it some time_

[10:58AM]:

I'd like that. A lot.

[11:04AM]:

I didn't say anything too stupid last night, did I? I tend to be a lot stupider when drunk.

 _[11:07AM]:_

 _you said you love me_

 _[11:07AM]:_

 _does that count?_

 _[11:13AM]:_

 _i know you had been drinking so_

[11:15AM]:

So what? You think I don't mean it?

[11:16AM]:

I know we haven't said that to each other in a long time. Not since before the split. I didn't just stop. I feel the same. You gotta know that by now. I love you.

 _[11:18AM]:_

 _i know_

[11:20AM]:

Oh, you know? Are we doing like a Han and Leia thing right now? Is that what this is?

 _[11:24AM]:_

 _no, i just know i am very lovable_

 _[11:24AM]:_

 _how could you not love me?_

[11:27AM]:

Exactly. How could I not? You're too damn lovable. So, no, it's not just because I was drunk that I said it. I realized I hadn't said it in way too long.

 _[11:30AM]:_

 _i love you too old man_

[11:34AM]:

Everybody loves me. I'm just that great.

 _[11:37AM]:_

 _oh yes you are very very lovable cowboy_

 _[11:37AM]:_

 _but nobody loves you like i do x_

[11:42AM]:

You're sweeping me off my feet all over again.

[11:47AM]:

this is what a boyfriend is supposed to do, yes? so i will do it :P

[11:51AM]:

You're doing real good so far.

[11:54AM]:

I gotta go out for a little while. Sam's giving me a ride to go get my car. So I couldn't drive home last night, for obvious reasons, so now I gotta haul ass into town. It's a whole thing. Talk later?

 _[12:03PM]:_

 _we will :) have fun x_

* * *

MON 30 NOVEMBER

 _[10:47PM]:_

 _i think i am having the midlife crises_

[10:53PM]:

You're kidding, right?

 _[11:08PM]:_

 _no?_

[11:20PM]:

Babe. You're 26.

 _[11:25PM]:_

 _and? im still having it_

[11:27PM]:

Go to bed. We'll talk about your midlife crisis in the morning. Sweet dreams. Xx

 _[11:30PM]:_

 _nighty night !_

* * *

WED 2 DECEMBER

[9:53PM]: INCOMING CALL: PIETRO

* * *

 _[11:51PM]:_

 _fell asleep agin didnt i?_

[11:55PM]:

You did, but it's ok. I stayed on the line til I knew you were asleep. We'll talk more in the morning. Xx

* * *

THURS 3 DECEMBER

DRAFT [8:00AM]:

Hey, you there? We should talk. It's nothing serious, don't worry. Ok, so maybe it's a little bit serious, but don't panic. It's not the bad kind of serious. Just an adult conversation that I need to have with you, my super mature adult boyfriend.

DRAFT [8:04AM]:

You're probably still asleep

DRAFT [8:07AM]:

Hey we need to talk. There, I said it. And no, it's not about us. Well it kind of is, but not like what you're thinking. Wow I'm shit at this.

[8:30AM]:

Hey. Mornin. :)

 _[8:52AM]:_

 _morning :) what did you dream about?_

[8:59AM]:

Hmm can't remember. But you were the first thing I thought about when I woke up.

[9:01AM]:

What did you dream about?

 _[9:14AM]:_

 _you n how much i want to see you_

 _[9:16AM]:_

 _do you think i could stay with you at the farm some time? i miss you and i miss your lucky  
_

[9:20AM]:

Yeah, sure, we miss you too.

[9:22AM]:

That might be a bit awkward. I'm selling the place. I got an offer on it about a week ago from a real nice family. Bunch of kiddies and two dogs. So I mean, I'm sure they probably won't mind too much if you crash with them, but if you want, come stay over at Steve's instead. That's where I'll be.

[9:24AM]:

I move out on Monday.

 _[9:36AM]:_

 _what_

 _[9:36AM]:_

 _why didnt you tell me?_

 _[9:37AM]:_

 _clint you love the farm_

[9:40AM]:

I told you last night on the phone. That's when it finally hit me. It felt like a loose end I had to tie up on my own. With Scott's help, of course. And Thor. I'll be at Steve's for a few weeks while I figure out my next move. Got some boxes in storage and only a few nights left.

[9:43AM]:

Everything happened really fast.

[9:47AM]:

You weren't asleep, but you were close. I guessed you didn't hear me, so I was going wait til our call tonight but I woke up and decided I couldn't wait that long. I had to tell you.

 _[9:51AM]:_

 _why are you doing this for?_

[9:55AM]:

I'm doing it for me.

[9:55AM]:

It's time to go. It's been time for awhile.

 _[9:57AM]:_

 _but you love that house_

[10:00AM]:

Yeah, of course I do. But somebody else can love it just as much as I do. It was always supposed to be a place for me and Laura. Ever since, it felt less like my home, and kind of like I was still hanging onto it because I didn't know what else to do with it. And I don't want to be that guy. I want a fresh start.

 _[10:04AM]:_

 _are you sure? this is a very big decision_

[10:08AM]:

Sure as I'm ever gonna be, yeah. :)

* * *

 **A/N:** With the way editing is going so far, there are only 2 chapers left! I love these boys, and appreciate all the kind words and support. Not sure I'm ready to let this go. Xx


End file.
